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SANCHO, 

OR 

THE PROVERBIALIST. 



S A AC HO 
-«fe PvoTotvtiaim, 



D SANCHO, 



OR 



Wht Iprotorfcialtst 



DECIPIMUR SPECIE RECTI. 



^erontr tuition. 



LONDON : 

Printed by Ellerto?i and Henderson, 

Johnson's Court, Fleet Street, 

FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, STRAND; 
AND J.HATCHARD, PICCADILLY. 

iai6. 



DEDICATION. 



TO 

All the Lovers of those 

Short, pithy, pointed, popular Maxims, 

called "Proverbs" 

Conceiving that many of the rules by 
which you live are false and dangerous, 
and that rules of life both safe and true 
are to be found, I have thought it my 
duty to illustrate these positions by re- 
cording some of the events of my life, 
and, with much humility, to present the 
Memoir to you. 

I am, &c. 

THE AUTHOR. 

May, 1816. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

CHAP. I. — A Family Picture - 1 

II. — Another Family Picture 9 

III. — Preparation for School 17 

IV.— The History of " Number One" .. 27 
V. — The Way to treat an humbled Ad- 
versary 36 

VI. — Another Head of the Hydra 43 

VII. — The History of a Conformist 52 

VIII. —Training for College 70 

IX. — A Morning in College 82 

X. — A mere " honest Man " is not " the 

noblest Work of God " 95 

XI. — The Way to be no Christian "... Ill 

XII. — An Event about which no Sceptic 

ever doubted 123 

XIII. — Journal of a selfish and disappointed 

Man 135 

XIV. — The dying Cottager 143 

XV. — An almost incurable Man restored, 
without sending him to a Mad- 
house • 160 



PREFACE 

TO 

THE SECOND EDITION. 



1HE Author of this little work thinks 
it necessary to say, in justification of the 
manner in which it is executed, that it 
was designed chiefly for a class of per- 
sons much neglected, as it appears to 
him, by the writers of the present day 
— neither the very young, nor the ma- 
ture, but those who, having escaped from 
the nursery, or the petty seminary, are 
entering upon the severer trials of the 
larger school, or the university. These 



VI PREFACE. 

may be considered as the seed-corn of 
our future harvests of good and great 
men. And, so anxious is the Author for 
its preservation, that he considers him- 
self as well employed, if, while he leaves 
the accomplishment of loftier objects to 
men of higher pretensions, he devotes 
himself faithfully and affectionately to 
the prosecution of this. 

Harrow, Nov. 7, 1816. 



SANCHO. 



CHAP. I. 



A FAMILY PICTURE. 



Of my parents I can say, very little, for they 
died before I was two years old. But of my 
aunt Winifred, to whom my father committed 
me on his dying bed, as she is likely to act a 
very prominent part in this history, I feel it 
right to say a great deal.— She was, then, a 
little, round, well- conditioned person, with a 
remarkable air of self-complacency. Her eye 
was rather dull ; her mouth had that sort of 
gentle elevation of the corners, which is not an 
unusual symbol of satisfaction with ourselves, 
and of a kind of quiet contempt for others. She 



was neatness itself; so that if the Hindoos, who 
have, it is said, at least thirty thousand divinities, 
and therefore must have a god or goddess for 
almost every thing, should ever determine to 
erect a pagoda to the Goddess of Neatness, 
they would, I am persuaded, feel a very serious 
loss indeed in my aunt, as the priestess of it. 
She was, moreover, so remarkably punctual as 
to render any clock or watch almost unneces- 
sary in the place where she lived. A modern 
philosophical writer, in illustrating the force of 
habit, mentions an instance of an ideot, who 
lived for many years in the same room with a 
clock, by which he was much interested. It 
was at last removed; but the poor creature, 
faithful to his loquacious friend, continued for 
many years to cluck for sixty minutes, and then 
to strike, in regular succession, the hours with 
his hand upon the table. Now, I do not mean 
to say that my aunt either clucked or struck 
for the benefit of the neighbourhood ; but she 



did what was quite as much to the purpose. 
When, from Lady-day to Michaelmas, she ap- 
peared in fine weather at the sheep-fold (for 
she was scrupulously attentive to her health) to 
catch the morning breath of the sheep, it was 
precisely eight o'clock. When she stooped in 
the broad, sunny, gravel walk, to gather agri- 
mony or rosemary for her breakfast, it was pre- 
cisely nine. At five minutes after nine her bell 
rang— not for family prayers — I wish it had — 
but for Harry to bring Pug and two cats their 
breakfast. Exactly ten minutes after this, the 
first hissings of her own urn were heard ; and, 
at precisely ten, this great business in the life of 
an idle person being accomplished, the break- 
fast vanished — crumbs and all. 

My aunt was constitutionally cautious. The 
high sense she had learned to entertain of her 
own value to the community, had so strength- 
ened this inbred tendency, that the greatest 
part of every day was spent in considering hew 
B2 



the rest of it might be spent in safety. Some 
of her neighbours were even scandalous enough 
to say, that, if she took a long journey, she was 
always " booked." And, as to weather, she 
was at once the barometer and thermometer of 
the neighbourhood in her own person. The 
minutest variations of cold and heat, of damp 
and dry, might be traced, with the greatest ac- 
curacy, in the colour and consistency of her 
shawl and gloves. 

Having thus noticed her physical properties, 
I must now proceed to her moral qualifications. 
She was a person, then, as somebody says, " of 
" more temper than passions, 9 * The first disco- 
vered itself so strongly in the circle of the 
family, that, whoever else might question its 
energy, the footman, the housemaid, and the 
cook were never heard (though the subject was 
most dutifully made the perpetual topic of cui- 
sinary discussion), to express a doubt upon the 
subject. As to her passions, I really believe 



that the strongest was the love of herself, and 
of myself. I speak of this love of the two as 
a single passion, because, I think, she chiefly 
loved me as her own property — as the child of 
her own creation — as a piece of living clay, 
which her own plastic hands were in the act of 
moulding into man. I would not be ungrateful 
to her — nor would I for the world undervalue the 
labours and watchings of those who, through 
the years of infancy, warm us in their bosom, 
and gently lead us up to manhood. He is not 
a man, but a monster, who fails to do justice 
to the tenderness of a mother, or of those aunts 
who have every thing of a mother but the name. 
But my aunt was so singularly selfish ; her faults 
have inflicted such a succession of evils upon 
myself; and so entirely does my confident ex- 
pectation of immensely benefiting the world by 
the relation of my own history, turn upon the 
development of them, that I am compelled to 

state them, even at the risk of being deemed a 
b 3 



6 

very undutiful nephew. I ought, moreover, to 
say, that I do think, if my aunt herself were 
alive, she would, in pity to the countless gene- 
rations of aunts and nephews hereafter to be 
born, desire me to proceed. 

Accordingly, I go on to state that peculiarity 
in the moral constitution of the old lady, which 
has given a complexion and shape to most of 
the events of my own life — which has been, in 
fact, a sort of destiny, lashing me through a 
series of large and little occurrences, follies, 
and distresses ; a very small portion of which 
are to be faithfully set forth in the following 
pages.— She was, then, passionately addicted to 
proverbs. Her whole life, and therefore my 
whole life, was governed by those maxims of 
life and manners which are in such general cir- 
culation, and are of such immeasurable weight 
in certain classes of society. 

" What !" it will at once be asked by a thou- 
sand profound moralists; "and is a reverence 



7 

M for proverbs imputed to this truly venerable 
" person as a crime ] Are they not the ' trea- 
" * sured wisdom of ages]' Do not the Greeks 
" call them * the physic of the soul ] ' Is not 
" the reputation of Phocylides, and Diogenes, 
" and Isocrates, and Solon, and Thales, and a 
" long list of worthies, chiefly built upon their 
" proverbs? Nay, was not Solomon himself a 
" writer of Proverbs]' 

Very true ; but the " physic" of the Greeks 
may not be suited to the constitution of the 
English. Wise heathens make very unwise 
Christians. And as for the " Proverbs of 
" Solomon," I have observed that the lovers of 
other proverbs are very often the most ignorant 
of these. Thus, most certainly, was it with my 
aunt. She had no acquaintance with Solomon ; 
but with every uninspired oracle of this kind 
she had an almost incredible familiarity. She 
ate, she drank, she walked, she lived, and, what 
was worse, as I had no choice in the matter, she 
b 4 



constrained me to eat, to drink, to walk, to live, 
by proverbs. 

Now, as I owe much to my country, under 
the shadow of whose vine I have sat in safety 
for seventy years ; and as, moreover, I am about 
soon to ask of her the additional boon of a space 
of earth in which I may lay my aged bones, 
I am anxious to do something for her bene- 
fit. And as although the history of Achilles, 
who was fed upon the marrow of lions ; and 
of Romulus, who was suckled by a wolf, have 
been written ; but the history of a person 
fed, nourished, and educated upon proverbs, 
has not been written ; I think it my bounden 
duty to lay this narrative at the feet of my 
country, persuaded that she, who has not 
spurned a fallen usurper from them, but has 
mildly bid him " go, and sin no more," will 
not despise the simple gift of one of the hum- 
blest and most affectionate of her children. 



CHAP. II. 

ANOTHER FAMILY PICTURE. 

He is a very unfortunate man indeed, who has 
but one aunt, if she is not more amiable than 
my aunt Winifred. But it was my happiness to 
have another, who, for her size, which was re- 
markably diminutive, was, I do think, one of the 
best creatures in the kingdom ; and the ex- 
traordinary candour with which I have pre- 
sented to the reader one family picture, of which 
the features are certainly not very creditable to 
the race and name, will, I trust, induce him to 
acquit me of all partiality in my sketch of the 
second. 

My aunt Rachel then, was, by the church re- 
gister, though not by the calculation of my aunt 
Winifred, at least twenty years younger than her 
B 5 



10 

sister. It is remarkable, in how many instances 
the eldest child is neither the wisest nor the best. 
Perhaps, indeed, one solution of the fact is, that, 
just about the time at which parents become 
possessed of a second child, they begin to dis- 
cover the immeasurable mischief of spoiling the 
first. But I leave solutions to philosophers, 
and simply state the fact, that such was the case 
with my two aunts. Indeed, I might briefly de- 
scribe the younger as having all the excellen- 
cies, and none, or very few, of the defects of her 
sister. She was quite as neat, and nearly as 
punctual. Her temper was so sweet, that she 
was always known, among the unprejudiced 
members of the family, by the name of 
f* Harmony/' But what is most worthy of 
notice, as it respects the following history, is, 
that her repugnance to a proverb, or maxim, or 
any thing approaching to a neat, pointed, pithy, 
oracular, sententious saying, bore a pretty exact 
proportion to her sister's unbounded reverence 



II 

for them. Not that she instinctively abhorred 
them; for, by nature, I believe, every person 
loves a short sentence better than a long one ; 
just as we should naturally prefer a bank-note 
to the same sum in Spartan money. But, to 
pursue the metaphor, she had so often suffered 
by the forgery of the notes, that she had learnt 
to prefer the cumbrous coin, with all its disad- 
vantages, to its fictitious though plausible repre- 
sentative. Be that as it may, I can, even to this 
day, remember the sort of doubting, scrupu- 
lous, inquisitive countenance with which she 
was always accustomed to receive these dicta of 
her sister. She had too intimate an acquaint- 
ance with her sister's mind, and with the means 
of promoting truth and peace in the family 
circle, flatly to controvert these sayings. But 
I often observed, that, about five minutes after 
the oracle had delivered its sentence, aunt 
Rachel quietly slipped out some scriptural 
quotation which bore no inconsiderable resem- 



12 

blance to the proverb, and which she endeavour- 
ed, almost imperceptibly, to substitute for it. 

Now the rationale of this conduct of my aunt 
was, as I conceive, as follows. Proverbs, for 
the most part, either contain a portion of truth, 
or are true in some circumstances, and under 
particular modifications. The portion of truth 
conveyed in them is generally conveyed or im- 
plied in some passage of Scripture. My aunt 
Rachel then, by dexterously seizing upon the 
proper passage of Holy Writ, at once corrected 
the proverb, half satisfied her sister, established 
the truth, and set at ease (which was no easy 
matter) her own conscience. 

I must add, however, that partly the consti- 
tutional mildness of Rachel— partly the irasci- 
bility of Winifred — partly the sordid fact that I 
depended for my fortune upon the elder sister, 
gave such authority to the tones of the one, and 
such insignificance to those of the other, that I, 
and others who were foolish enough to mistake 



13 

confidence for sagacity, were accustomed to 
think Winifred a very wise aunt, and Rachel 
rather a weak one. — Nor is this a very uncom- 
mon case. " Why/' said a Prussian ecclesiastic 
of high rank to a celebrated actor — •* Why, 
" when I and my brethren speak the truth, 
" does no one believe us ; but, when you speak 
" falsehood, every one believes you T " Be- 
" cause/' he replied, " we deliver falsehood as 
" if it were truth ; and you, truth as if it were 
" falsehood." — I heartily wish that my aunt 
Rachel had lived to enjoy the benefit of this 
anecdote. 

But, to proceed. — These complicated cir- 
cumstances produced a remarkable state of 
things in the family. The point to be ascer- 
tained in any given case was, not what was best 
to be done, but what my aunt Winifred thought 
it best to do — or, in other words, as she rarely 
acted but on the authority of a proverb, what 
she could find proverbial authority for doing. 



14 

This being once discovered, I no more thought 
of resisting the will of my aunt, backed by a 
proverb, than a stone, when left to the influence 
of gravity, thinks of hesitating to descend. I 
spoke, thought, wept, laughed; and moreover 
refrained from speech, thought, weeping, 
laughter — all at her mighty bidding. Rachel, 
indeed, often whispered, nodded, sighed, or 
quoted, but generally in vain. I really loved 
her the best of the two ; but all her dumb-shew, 
sighs, whispers, and nods, had no point — had 
not the sanction of a proverb — and, moreover, 
had never the singular good fortune to be backed 
by a crown piece ; and, therefore, had little or 
no authority for me. 

Thus have I discharged the duty of intro- 
ducing my two aunts to the public — a duty, 
indeed, from which I might have easily delivered 
myself, by suffering them, in good time, to in- 
troduce themselves. But had I so done, it is 
very possible that some, at least, of my readers 



15 

might have mistaken their real characters : for 
each of them wore a veil— one of confidence, 
and the other of bashfulness; neither of which 
is it easy to penetrate. Besides, in this philo- 
sophical age, when every man who sees an effect 
is looking for a cause, I thought I should be 
yielding much gratification to the thinking part 
of the community, by developing the secret 
springs of my own character. There is many 
a strange creature at large in society, of whose 
follies and infirmities it is almost impossible to 
give even a plausible account. We look at him 
as we do at the stones conjectured, by some 
naturalists, to fall from the moon. Now I was 
precisely one of those anomalous personages ; 
and lest any philosopher, for want of a better 
hypothesis, should be betrayed into so rash a 
conjecture, as that I also came from the moon, 
I think it just and charitable to state the truth 
in the succeeding pages. 

There is one observation which it is desirable 



16 

to premise. — My readers may feel alarmed lest 
it should be my intention to detail to them 
many of the wise sayings of my aunt Winifred. 
Now, however worthy multitudes might think 
them of record, I certainly do not design to 
force them upon the rest of a thankless world. 
I shall therefore state only such as both gave 
the peculiar complexion to my own life, and are 
likely to influence the life of others. All her 
other maxims may be found in the works of 
Cervantes, or of Poor Richard, or in any other 
repertory for those sayings of which no one 
knows the author, but nine-tenths of the world 
acknowledge the indisputable authority and 
boundless value. 



17 



CHAP. III. 

PREPARATION FOR SCHOOL. 

1 WAS born in the year 1735, in the manor- 
house of a sweet little country village, almost 
every cottage of which might be seen reflected 
in a small lake that spread itself over the valley 
beneath. I seem at this moment to see my 
aunt Winifred, as she used to stand, as sad as 
one of the willows which wept over the water, 
and, pointing to the shadowy mansion beneath, 
say, " Aye, child, all is not gold that glitters." 

But though I perfectly remember the man- 
sion in which I continued to live for a large 
part of my life, I can call to mind scarcely any 
of the occurrences of the first half of this time. 
I remember only, that at about twelve years 
old, I used to hear the housemaid complain 



18 

that I was " of a very fretful temper ;" and that 
my aunt Winifred took no less pains to assure 
me that I " was of a very delicate constitution" 
— of which last piece of information, one of the 
greatest mischiefs was, that it was considered 
as furnishing a complete apology for the fault 
hinted at in the first. — I, moreover, found myself 
possessed of the name of Sancho ; the singu- 
larity of which title never struck me, till I found 
at least half a dozen pointers in the neighbour- 
hood in the enjoyment of the same distinction. 
Upon inquiring into the origin of my name, 
however, I discovered that my aunt had vowed, 
early in life, that, should she ever be possessed 
of a human being on whom she might be pri- 
vileged to bestow a name, he should be en- 
riched by at least one half of the title of the 
illustrious squire of Don Quixote, — he being, 
next to the oracle of Delphos, the greatest ori- 
ginator and promulgator of those sententious 
sayings in which her heart delighted. 



19 

The first incident of my life, of which I have 
a very distinct recollection, shall now be re- 
corded. One morning in the middle of July, 
when I was about twelve years of age, I was 
suddenly summoned into the drawing-room, to 
hold a conference with my two aunts ; or rather 
to look at the one, and to listen to the other. 
When I entered, the elder was seated, unem- 
ployed as to her hands, but with something of 
the expression upon her countenance usually 
given by painters to the philosopher who had 
made the long-desired discovery of the secret 
about Hiero's crown, and who exultingly ran 
about the city, crying, " I have discovered it, 
I have discovered it." Rachel was calmly knit- 
ting a pair of stockings for an old woman in the 
village. My aunt Winifred called me to her — 
took me by the hand — and would have kissed 
me, but that, alas ! she perceived my face be- 
grimed to the very eyes with half the contents 
of a pot of black-currant jelly, which she had, 



20 

upon pain of her mortal displeasure, prohibited 
me from touching about an hour before. But 
being on the eve of promulgating one of those 
maxims, on which she deemed that my future 
welfare in life depended, she thought it, I sup- 
pose, impolitic to rouse any passions in my 
breast unfavourable to the lecture. Accord- 
ingly, with much sagacity, she left the currant 
jelly to soften the way for her lesson, and thus 
proceeded. 

" My dear Sancho, I, and your aunt Rachel " 
(for this was the order in which she always in- 
troduced the two names) " have been deter- 
mining to send you to school. You know my 
deep anxiety for your welfare, and therefore I 
need not insist upon the point. In order, then, 
to promote it, I have been consulting my me- 
mory for some single sentence in which I may 
treasure up all the advice which it is most de- 
sirable for me to give you on the present occa- 
sion. Nor have I consulted in vain. There is one 



21 

rule, my dear boy, which will carry you with 
safety, honour, and splendour through life — it 
is this, f Take care of Number One!'" 

Rachel, who, I suppose, comprehended 
the full meaning of the proverb, almost 
groaned. 

" Sister Rachel," said my aunt Winifred 
(whose ears on occasions such as these were 
prodigiously quick), " I know the expression is 
homely; but what of that] 'Truth is truth, 
though never so homely.' 

Aunt Rachel answered nothing; but I was 
far from being so silent on the occasion. I have 
not yet informed the reader (and it is a fact 
which T perceive writer^ ^n general have a pro- 
digious objection, ho' oci well founded, to 
state to their readers) ffiat I was always a per- 
son of rather dull uWatf standing. The reader 
may possibly, if charitable, think me a little 
improved by this^ ; tne. I nevertheless beg to 
assure him, that of my dulness, at twelve years 



22 

old, there never was tbe smallest question 
amongst those who knew me best. And of all 
things difficult to my apprehension, unfortu- 
nately for my aunt, and as she thought for my- 
self, proverbs were the most difficult. Accord- 
ingly, I rarely failed, when my auut first pro- 
mulgated a sentiment of this kind, to her un- 
bounded mortification, entirely to misapprehend 
it ; and thus it was now. When my aunt, there- 
fore, authoritatively and solemnly pronounced 
the words " Take care of Number One," it by 
no means occurred to me that " Number One " 
was the representative of so dignified a person 
as myself; but, thinking exclusively of a very 
splendid set of numbered counters which she 
had given me a few days before, I very simply 
asked, " And, aunt, must not I take care of 
" Number Two also ? " 

" Child," said my aunt, " you are little 
" better than an ideot. * Number One* means 
" your foolish self; and, therefore, if I must put 



23 

u into common English what is so briefly and 
" forcibly expressed by the proverb, ' Take 
" ■ care of Number One/ means ■ Take care 
u ' of yourself alone/ v 

u Oh/' said I, " aunt, now I do understand 
" you ; and I am sure you will think me a very 
" good boy, for I have just been * taking care 
" * of Number One ' in the very way you mean, 
" by eating up all the currant jelly which you 
" left upon the table." 

My aunt Rachel a little archly smiled. But 
not so her sister. Her perplexity was extreme. 
For what dilemma could be more complete] 
Either she was wrong in ordering me not to eat 
the currant jelly ; or the proverb was inaccurate. 
One of the two must be sacrificed— and nothing 
in the world was so dear to her as the reputation 
and honour of both. The only expedient which 
occurred to her was the searching for some 
other proverb which might supply some sort of 
qualification for this. She would at the mo- 



24 

ment, I firmly believe, have given fifty pounds 
for a maxim so constructed as to say at once, 
" Take care of Number One, and of your aunt." 
But no such proverb occurred to her. She 
called to mind indeed, for she was a tolerable 
Latin scholar, the proverb in that language, 
" Proximus sum egomet mihi," and that of the 
Italians, " Fa bone k te e tuoi, e poi a gli altri 
" se tu puoi." Then, for as far as proverbs went 
she was also familiar with the Greek, she re- 
collected that Athenian saying, Murw o-tHpisrrJv 
trig en dvrdS trofof. But, unhappily, one and 
all breathed the same spirit — one and all taught 
that self-love is the best principle, and self- 
indulgence the first duty of life. One and all 
of these maxims, uncontrouled by any higher 
principle, would evidently lead a boy to disobey 
his aunt, and eat the currant jelly. What then 
could be done ] Fortune sometimes assists those 
whom wisdom and literature refuse to help. 
And thus it happened now. For at this critical 



25 

moment a carriage drove up to the front door ; 
and the conference was suspended, to wait upon 
the company. Before, however, they had time 
to enter the room, I heard my aunt Rachel very 
gently say, " I think that Roman Emperor was 
a very wise man, who wrote upon the walls of 
his palace in letters of gold, ' Do unto others 
as you would they should do unto you/" 
I thought, moreover, that I heard her sister 
answer, " Pshaw !" And that I was not altoge- 
ther mistaken in this supposition appears to be 
probable from this circumstance, that when I 
opened my box at school, ten days afterwards, 
I found, wrapt up in a triple paper, with a 
guinea to accompany it, the identical maxim, 
unqualified and unmitigated, in all its own 
native simplicity and majesty, " Take care of 
Number One." 

With such a recommendation, it could 
scarcely fail to be remembered and valued. 
Accordingly, thus armed and accoutred for the 
c 



2G 

warfare of life, I entered upon my school 
career; and whoever wishes to know the feats 
which I there performed has only to read the 
next chapter. 



•27" 



CHAP. IV. 

THE HISTORY OF " NUMBER ONE." 

ON the twenty-fifth of July, with a whole 
guinea in my pocket, the contents of a pastry- 
cook's window in iny trunk, and my aunt's pre- 
cious maxim in my heart, I descended the steps 
of a post-chaise to enter for the first time upon 
all the distinctions and trials of a school-boy. 
The house was unusually high, covered with 
narrow windows, protected each, like those of 
a mad-house, by iron bars. The title, both of 
the mansion and of its owner, were inscribed, 
in Patagonian characters, upon its front. But, 
if it had been watched by Patagonians them- 
selves, I should not, at that moment, have heed- 
ed them. Almost every person, knowing the 
evils of his present situation, and uncertain 
C2 



28 

about the future, expects to be benefited by a 
change of circumstances. Besides, wiser people 
than myself have been seduced by novelty. 
Moreover, there were two monstrous dragons, 
as yet barely introduced to my readers, which 
lay perpetually at the door of my aunt's house, 
namely, her Selfishness and Irritability; from 
which it is not in human nature not to rejoice 
to escape. And still more, I had become sole 
proprietor, occupier, and administrator of the 
ifore-mentioned accumulation of cakes and 
sweetmeats, on which, by a reasonable calcu- 
lation, I might hope to live, if they themselves 
did not kill me, for at least a week. What 
more could the most ambitious school-boy 
covet] 

The master having, by means of a slight ferial, 
plumbed the depth of my ignorance, I was 
turned loose upon the school. Almost at the 
moment of my first entrance, a crowd of boys 
came round me, not merely to ascertain who I 



29 

was, but also what I had got; it being the 
practice of that particular school— a practice, 
by the bye, much contemned in loftier semi- 
naries—for every new comer to purchase his 
freedom by a liberal distribution of the gifts of 
his provident friends. Now it instantly occur- 
red to me that I could not be dutiful too soon ; 
and that it would be terrible, indeed, to violate 
one of my aunt's maxims, before the tear she 
had shed on our separation was dry upon my 
cheek. And, therefore, I heroically resolved, 
in a moment, to shew the school that my first 
principle was to " take care of Number One." 
Accordingly, I calmly took my sweets from 
their depository, and, as calmly, one by one, 
began to devour them.— It is said, that one of 
the French monarchs, when in a very infirm 
state of health, in order to deceive the English 
ambassador, ate an enormous dinner in public, 
of which he died in a few days ; and, though a 
private person might not presume to scale the 
c 3 



3% 

Iieights of regal ambition and magnanimity, 
certain it is, that, in support of my own dignity, 
and of my aunt's proverb, I devoured three 
times as much as I should have done in less ar- 
duous circumstances. 

During this process, I was every instant ex- 
pecting to receive some public acknowledgment 
of my superiority to vulgar prejudices and prac- 
tices from the assembled school. But, what 
was my surprise, instead of this, to find a storm 
gathering around me — to see a general muster 
of the boys — to hear, as a sort of watch-word, 
the inelegant phrase of " greedy brute " vocife- 
rated from every quarter ! And, at length, after 
the way of some bigger folks, the boys, resolv- 
ing to seize as a right what they could not ob- 
tain as a gift, literally hustled me from my seat, 
rolled me on the ground, pounced like harpies 
upon the cakes, and hurried away into the 
play-ground, to enjoy the fruits of their tri- 
umph and of my discomfiture, Nor was this 



31 

the whole of my calamity. The attack had, 
unfortunately, not been made before I had 
swallowed enough for several people of my per- 
sonal dimensions. Accordingly, the apothe- 
cary was sent for; and, between each of the 
successive phials, the contents of which he 
deemed it expedient, either for himself or for 
me, to force down my throat, I could not help 
sometimes moralising a little upon this first 
result of my conformity to my aunt's maxim, 
and saying to myself, " It seems to me as if one 
of the best ways to 'take care of Number One' 
was to take care of all the rest of the numbers. 5 ' 
At last, however, the doctor left me, and 
1 soon recovered. And, with my strength, my 
faith in my aunt's opinion returned ; nor was 
I long, as my reader shali now learn, without 
reaping some additional fruits of it. Living 
under the influence of a principle which che- 
rished such devoted zeal for my own interest 
and convenience, I was not likely soon to forget 
c 4 



32 

the injury which had been inflicted upon me. 
Accordingly, I most anxiously watched for an 
opportunity of finding alone a puny little urchin, 
who had been remarkably active in the assault 
upon me, and dealt him some such blows upon 
the precise spot of his dwarfish person which 
might be supposed to be particularly gratified 
by the theft from me, as sent him howling with 
agony into the school. But, what was my 
horror, to see the whole body of cannibals pour 
out in close squadron, and, without condescend- 
ing to hold a moment's parley, begin to pay 
me, in kind, and even with accumulated in- 
terest, for my attack upon one of their as- 
sociates. And, as naturally no one of them 
could endure to be outdone by the rest in the 
demonstration of his loyalty and fidelity to so 
good a cause, so thoroughly was I beaten, that 
the marvel is I am alive this day to record the 
history of my persecutions. At last, however, 
they left me, black and blue, in a corner of 



33 

the play-ground : and here, once more, I had 
abundant leisure to philosophise ; and I could 
scarcely avoid questioning, pretty resolutely, at 
the moment, both the truth and the expediency 
of my aunt's maxim. 

Still, however, a principle planted by her 
hand, and highly congenial to our sordid 
nature, was not soon to be rooted out. And, 
accordingly, I was doomed, besides enduring a 
thousand petty mortifications, besides incurring 
the hatred of the bulk of my school-fellows, to 
suffer a still heavier penalty of my love of self. 

Self, as might be expected, is not a very 
accurate distinguisher between mine and thine. 
The distinctions of property vanish before an 
eye which sees only one individual in the 
whole world. Accordingly, in two or three 
different instances, I had, in compliance with 
the spirit of my aunt's maxim, laid my hands 
upon articles belonging to other boys ; but had 
adroitly " taken such care of Number One," 
c 5 



34 

that no one had discovered the theft. At 
length, however, I felt an inordinate desire to 
become possessed of a knife, an article which 
my aunt, in tender love to my person, had 
always denied me, and, watching an opportu- 
nity, I found the desk of its owner open, and 
carried it off in triumph. But this triumph 
was short. The knife happened to be no less 
valuable to its real proprietor than to myself; 
and, being very popular in the school, he had 
interest to move and carry a resolution — that 
the trunk of every boy should be opened, and 
examined, in quest of it. What could be done ? 
I first resisted the motion — then vehemently 
protested that the key was lost — then dexte- 
rously broke it in the lock. But all obstacles 
being overcome, the trunk was opened and the 
knife found, carefully wrapped up, together 
with my aunt's maxim, in the identical triple 
envelope in which she conveyed it to school. 
Here was irresistible evidence of my guilt; and 



35 

the master being called in, and detecting at 
once the cause and consequence of my crime, 
out of regard for the rest of his school, dis- 
patched me to my aunt with this laconic 
note : — 

" Madam, 
" You have sent your boy to school with a 
" principle which has made him greedy, cruel, 
"and dishonest. It is but just that you, who 
" have given the disease, should endeavour to 
" cure it; and, therefore, I have sent him back 
" to you. 

Yours, &c. &c." 



CHAP. V. 

THE WAY TO TREAT AN HUMBLED 
ADVERSARY. 

IT would be very difficult, indeed, to paint the 
storm which raged in my aunt's mind ( to say 
nothing of her countenance), upon her receipt 
of myself and the letter, of which I was the 
bearer. And as some thousands of writers, in 
prose and verse, have thought themselves pri- 
vileged to employ, without any acknowledg- 
ment, the first iEneid for the description of all 
scenery of this kind, I shall take the more 
honest method of at once referring my readers 
to Virgil for a full and particular account of 
the whole transaction. Let them but conceive, 
which is by no means difficult, my aunt to be 
Juno, and her face to be the sea, and the 
business is accomplished in a moment. 



37 

I had entered the room, not only without a 
blush, but with considerable self-complacency 
for my very dutiful conformity to my aunt's 
wishes. — No sooner was the letter read by the 
two sisters than, as they had not heard the 
slightest breathing of my adventures at school, 
they both with eager voice demanded what 
could have led to so rapid and extraordinary 
a catastrophe. I told my story with much sim- 
plicity — expressed no little horror and amaze- 
ment at the villainy of school-boys — almost 
intimated a suspicion of the accuracy of my 
aunt's maxim— and courageously assured her, 
that if I had attempted to " take care of Num- 
ber One" much longer, the boys would not have 
left a sound inch of " Number One" to be taken 
care of. 

My aunt wrung her hands — but whether in 
dismay at my folly — at my sufferings — at the 
wickedness of the school bovs, or of the master 



38 

— or, finally, at the apparent fallibility of her 
infallible maxim, I am unable to say, as she said 
nothing herself. She then took a huge pinch 
of snuff, put the letter into the fire, and hid her 
face in her hands. Rachel was, as I have be- 
fore said, a most tender creature ; and, though 
even a somewhat stern moralist would have 
scarcely condemned her for feeling a momen- 
tary triumph in this practical refutation of so 
hateful a principle — and of a principle, more- 
over, to which she had discovered so strong a 
repugnance— she felt no triumph at all. In 
fact, all her sister's sorrows were her own : 
therefore, taking her gently by the hand, she 
said — " My dear sister, however much we may 
have differed about the value of this maxim, 
you, I am persuaded, no more foresaw or 
designed these consequences than I did. You 
did not mean Sancho to be greedy, cruel, or 
dishonest/' 



39 

" My aunt," said I — for here my pride took 
fi re — << meant me to 'take care of Number 
One / and this is all I have done/' 

" My dear boy/' said the good-natured 
Rachel, "you quite mistake the matter; and 
as your aunt is too unwell just now to explain 
herself, I, in my poor way, will do it for her. 
She could mean no more by ' taking care of 
Number One/ than that it was every person's 
duty to take care of himself. But then the 
best way to take care of yourself, Sancho, is to 
please God, and to be just and kind toothers." 

u But, aunt/' said I, " there is nothing about 
pleasing God, and being good and kind to 
others, in the proverb." 

" No, there is not," she replied; " but still 
my sister meant all this, and a great deal more, 
as she would soon convince you, Sancho, if she 
were well. You understood the proverb to 
mean, that you should indulge yourself in all 
that pleased you best at the moment: your aunt 



40 

meant that you should do what was best for 
yourself upon the whole." 

Now, not a word of this last distinction diet 
I understand. But as I held my tongue — 
which is a rule I earnestly recommend to all 
persons in similar circumstances — my aunt Ra- 
chel did not find me out, and accordingly 
proceeded. 

" My dear Sancho," she said, " no man ever 
became good or great who was very fond of 
himself: good and great men live for others. 
Look there, my boy !" and I turned my eyes to 
a fine copy of Ruben's Descent from the Cross, 
to which she pointed — " The Son of God/' 
said she, " came down to live and to die for 
others." 

This argument I did understand ; and I can 
truly say, that, through my long life, whenever 
I have wanted a cure for selfishness, I have 
found nothing so efficacious as following my 
aunt Rachel's advice. A hundred times at 



41 

least, when self has been getting the better of 
nobler considerations, her " Look there, my 
boy ! " has sounded in my ears. I have looked 
with my mind's eye at the picture, and said, It 
is impossible to be a real follower of Christ, 
and to be selfish. 

But, to return to our history. While I was 
looking at the picture, my aunt Winifred rose 
up, I thought that I saw her gratefully, though 
rather awkwardly, press her sister's hand, I am 
sure that I saw her eyes full of tears. She 
left the room. Rachel immediately followed 
her, but not till she had said to me, " Look, 
Sancho, to-night for a verse which I will mark 
in the little Bible I gave you; and you may 
venture to use that verse in future instead of 
the proverb." I did look, and found my aunt's 
initials marked opposite the words, '* Thou 
shalt love thy neighbour as thyself;'' and I 
think it right to say, that if I had literally 
complied with this command, either at that 



42 

time, or for many years of my life, there are 
very few people in the world who would have 
loved their neighbour better. But, of this also, 
the reader may judge for himself in the fol- 
lowing pages, 



43 



CHAP. VI. 

ANOTHER HEAD OF THE HYDRA. 

FlE knows little of human nature who fancies 
that the follies and vices of the world, in general, 
are, as it were, to be brought down by a single 
shot. And he knows equally little of the cha- 
racter of my aunt Winifred who imagines her to 
be an exception to this general rule, and con- 
ceives her likely to be cured of her error by the 
single incident recorded in the last chapter. It 
is often the property of those who hold very 
foolish opinions, to be attached to them just in 
proportion to their folly — as idolaters love their 
idols the better, the more deformed they are. 
I do not say that my aunt entertained quite the 
same profound respect for the particular pro- 
verb which had so much dishonoured the family; 



44 

but she attached just the same value to all other 
proverbs. Accordingly, having taken time to 
collect herself, to let the incidents at school in a 
measure escape from my memory, and to search 
into the collected principles of ages, for some 
other equally great, but safer, principle of action, 
she at length announced to me her intention of 
sending me to another school; and having sent 
for me alone, to avoid the scrutiny of her sister, 
she thus addressed me : — 

" I will own, my dear Sancho, that when I 
sent you to school with only one single proverb 
for a guide and protector, I trusted somewhat 
too much to its solitary efficacy. As every man 
has two arms and two legs, and two eyes, and 
two ears, it is no disparagement of proverbs to 
admit, that two are necessary to guide you 
aright in the thorny path of life. I have, there- 
fore, deeply investigated the influence of the 
first maxim I gave you, upon your conduct at 
school; aud I find that you ate, fought, and 



45 

stole, in an exceptionable manner, not because 
you gave heed to one proverb, but because you 
did not give heed to two. I have had, I will 
own, some difficulty in discovering what maxim 
might be best associated with the first; but, at 
length, my good genius has suggested one, and 
I now communicate it to you — it is this, " Do at 
Rome as they do at Rome." 

Now, as the master of the school had not al- 
lowed me by any means to waste even the few 
weeks I spent there, and as my reading had been 
confined, agreeably to the practice of the day, 
almost entirely to the classics, I had managed, 
in that short time, to obtain a pretty intimate 
acquaintance with not a few of the worst cha- 
racters and practices of ancient Rome. I had 
heard, for instance, with profound admiration, 
of the " godlike Cato " stabbing himself — and 
of the " immortal Brutus " stabbing his friend— 
of the " divine Julius" abandoning himself to 
every possible vice— of the " deified Nero" setting 



46 

fire to Rome, fiddling while it burned, and, with 
the most majestic contempt of all those rules 
of truth so very inconvenient to all orders of 
society, imputing the guilt of the conflagra- 
tion to the Christians. My aunt, therefore, had 
no sooner pronounced the proverb, than a con- 
fused prospect of daggers, swords, crowns, 
fiddles, fires, burst upon my delighted eyes. In 
a moment I bethought myself how delightful 
it would be on the next fifth of November — dis- 
daining the ancient tardy and niggardly method 
of celebrating on that day our zeal for Protes- 
tantism, and abomination of Popery, by col- 
lecting a few stray sticks, and lighting up a 
paltry bonfire — at once, like Nero, to thrust a 
burning brand into my aunt's largest hay-stack, 
and, with Robin the gardener, no mean fiddler, 
to light up a fire worthy of Rome itself— and 
then to charge the conflagration upon some 
boys in the village. But this very idea, I sup- 
pose, by bringing the subject near home, con- 



47 

viuced me that I must have mistaken my aunt's 
meaning. She, who was so invariably attentive 
to her own interest, could scarcely have in- 
tended me to burn her hay-ricks. Therefore, 
that I might fall into no error, I determined to 
ask, whether she meant that I was " to do as 
they did in ancient Rome." 
" No, child/' said my aunt. 
" What then," said I, " as they do in modern 
Rome ? " 

" Worse and worse/' said my aunt. " When 
will you understand, boy, the only species of 
language that is worth understanding? To 
1 do at Rome as they do at Rome/ is a sage 
maxim of antiquity, which teaches us, that ' in 
whatever spot of the globe we may chance to 
be, it is our duty kindly to accommodate our- 
selves to the prevailing customs/ " 

" Indeed," said I, * aunt!" opening wide my 
mouth, and both eyes, besides manifesting every 
other conceivable sign of astonishment. 

" Indeed ! " replied my aunt, " and why not? 



48 

If you cannot otherwise understand what seems 
to be so obvious,— apply this principle to the 
very circumstances in which you have lately 
been placed, and you will at once see the im- 
portant effect of it. Had you, for instance, 
acted upon it at school ; forasmuch as it was 
not the custom of the school to eat cakes with- 
out also distributing them — to pommel poor, 
little, puny, helpless boys in a corner — to make 
free with the property of others, you would 
both have escaped a beating, and have been 
suffered, perhaps, even at this moment, to re- 
main in the school." 

Now, although my aunt was, as I conceive, 
singularly injudicious in urging the last of these 
motives in favour of her argument, seeing I 
hated the school with all my heart, yet the pro- 
mise of full immunity in future from all corporal 
chastisement had such charms for me, that I at 
once yielded myself a convert to my aunt and 
to her new proverb. 



40 

Let it not, however, be thought that my sage 
counsellor admitted my profession to be genuine 
upon too slight a trial. Such suspicion had 
she of the treachery of my memory and under- 
standing, that she thought it right to ascertain 
whether I actually knew the words of the 
proverb; and her dismay may be conceived, 
when she caught me in the very act of slipping 
in the monosyllable " not," after the first 
"do;" so that I was within a hair of going to 
school with the following maxim in my mouth, 
" Do not at Rome as they do at Rome ;" — a 
maxim unknown, I humbly conceive, to either 
" Porch" or " Academy," and so very like the 
scriptural maxim of " not following a multitude 
to do evil," as not very easily to insinuate itself 
amidst the fundamentals of large communities. 
Indeed, the bias I had to insert this " not' 1 was 
quite whimsical. My aunt's patience was, in 
fact, nearly exhausted. At length, however, by 
dint of daily repetition, and a few well-applied 



50 

bribes, I was considered as sufficiently perfect 
in my lesson, and consequently fit for school. 

I trust my reader has kept in mind that my 
autit Rachel had not been considered as worthy 
of initiation into these mysteries. Accordingly, 
when the morning arrived for my departure to 
a new school, it is difficult to say which of the 
two sisters most rejoiced at the circumstance. 
Winifred considered me to be as safe under the 
guardianship of this new principle, as if tied to 
her own apron-string : Rachel conceived me to 
be safer any where than at home. The issue 
of the last experiment taught her to hope that 
some practical antidote would be furnished at 
school, for whatever other mischievous prin- 
ciple [ might have the misfortune to carry along 
with me. But herein, I presume to think, her 
disposition to hope the best from every thing 
betrayed her into a very capital error. Though 
school-boys, like all other communities, are 
likely to punish selfishness for their own sake ; 






51 

there are certain other vices so much less 
troublesome as to be infinitely more popular. 
But I shall not anticipate what it is the province 
of the historian to record in the subsequent 
chapter. 



D 2 



52 



CHAP. VII. 

THE HISTORY OF A CONFORMIST. 

1 HE histories of Non-conformists have often 
employed the pens of the annalist and bio- 
grapher. In pity, therefore, to those who may 
be weary of such narratious, it is my intention 
to present them with the perfectly novel his- 
tory, of which the motto at the head of this 
chapter is an appropriate title. 

Having bid adieu to my two aunts, I soon 
found myself in a large circle of new school- 
fellows. During my ride, I had seriously re- 
flected on the faults in my conduct at the first 
school, and resolved strenuously to avoid them, 
" If my aunt," said I to myself, " had felt, as I 
have done, the personal results of ' taking care 
of Number One,' she would not, I am persuaded, 



53 

have continued to urge the proverb inculcating 
that duty as strongly as she does. At all events, 
with such experience of the consequences which 
attend it, I cannot be expected to extend to it 
the same unbounded reverence ; and, accord- 
ingly, I utterly forswear the use of it/' 

Now, it is obvious that nothing could be 
more favourable to my adherence to her second 
proverb, than this repugnance to the first. As 
I hated the first for its selfishness, so I valued 
the other for its apparent good-nature.—" ' Do 
as others do V Why," said I to myself, " in- 
stead of hisses, and groans, and blows, I shall 
be the most popular boy in the school." Under 
the influence of this spirit of accommodation, I 
entered the school. 

For a short period, I was satisfied to act 
upon my new principle in a general manner, 
merely putting myself into the stream of the 
school, and contentedly falling down its broad 
and impetuous current. During this time. L 
D 3 



54 

was frequently delighted to hear the title of 
" good-natured fellow" very liberally bestowed 
upon me ; and the only inconvenience I felt from 
my spirit of conformity, was the being made the 
general fag of the school— being always thrust 
from the fire when any other person wanted a 
place — and suffering the penalty of all the 
faults committed by the boys, though myself, 
perhaps, wholly unconcerned in the commis- 
sion of them. This penalty, however, became 
heavier every day ; and, besides, I began to say 
to myself, " This is concession, not imitation— 
this is doing what others please, not what others 
do — this will never satisfy my aunt." Accord- 
ingly, I resolved to act more strictly in the spirit 
of the proverb. 

The first endeavour, accordingly, was, to find 
out a model for my daily life. And it was na- 
tural enough to begin with those easiest of 
imitation. Therefore, as doing nothing was far 
easier than doing much, and doing wrong far 



55 

easier than doing right, I as naturally made my 
selection from some of the idlest and worst boys 
in the school. With these I strictly allied 
myself; or, to speak more correctly, I became 
a sort of u umbra," or shadow, to them : and 
after a short time, it must be admitted, that my 
imitation was very successful, and that I did 
both as little and as wrong as most of them. 
" Now," said I to myself, " I < do at Rome as 
they do at Rome/ " 

Many were the not altogether indisputable 
practices which, in the capacity of a Conformist, 
I was obliged to adopt. If an exercise, far in- 
stance, was given out; sometimes a most con- 
venient illness seized us at the very moment, 
and the medicines sent by the doctor were dex- 
terously thrown out of the window : sometimes 
an old exercise was vamped up to suit the 
present exigency : sometimes a little boy was 
thrashed into the execution of the task we were 
too idle to perform. But these, our literary 
P4 



56 

offences, were by no means the greatest. There 
was, in fact, scarcely any thing right which we 
allowed ourselves to do; and scarcely any thing 
wrong which we judged it expedient to leave 
undone. This state of things was not, however, 
likely to last long. Our devices, many of which 
were not a little ingenious, deceived the master 
for a time; and we escaped, for that period, 
with the hearty contempt of all the boys of 
better and higher feeling, of which there were 
not a few in the school ; but at last, by the 
treachery of one of our body, a full develop- 
ment was made of all our delinquencies. 

I will not stop to describe the catastrophe 
which followed— the expulsion of the worst 
offenders ; the punishing of others ; the elo- 
quent lecture which the master delivered from 
that line of Horace, " Imitatores servum ptcus" 
which he chose to interpret, " Imitators, a 
drove of slaves ;" and the still more forcible 
lesson which he founded upon the very text of 



57 

Scripture formerly quoted, " Thou shalt not 
follow a multitude to do evil." I must say, I 
never felt such respect for the master before* 
I was, happily, too young to be considered and 
dealt with as one of the ringleaders ; and conse- 
quently remained at school, to ruminate on past 
events, and to resolve for the future. 

Now, it may be thought, by some of my most 
precipitate readers, that I at once arrived at the 
conclusion that the principle of imitation was 
false, and that I as rapidly abjured and aban- 
doned it. But he who so reasons has, I am 
disposed to think, more good-nature than ac- 
quaintance with me or with human nature. It 
is very easy— as the poet, speaking of a some- 
what similar descent, has long since said — to 
" descend ;" but to " ascend again" is just as 
difficult. And, among the various contrivances 
adopted by those who pretend to be labouring 
up the ascent, is that of taking, instead of the 
direct, straight path, any path, however cir- 
D5 



53 

cuitous or remote, which may be conceived to 
lead to the same point. It was thus in my case. 
I determined, not at once to abandon all 
imitation, not to study my duty in the Bible 
and honestly endeavour to discharge it, but to 
imitate only those who were better than myself. 
And as the reader, perhaps, may be disposed to 
esteem this a very wise resolution, I will fully 
and candidly reveal to him the consequences 
of it. 

In the first place, then, I chose a single boy 
as a model; but as he, though possessed of many 
good qualities, had also one or two bad ones, I 
naturally took the bad with the good ; and 
falling, as it was likely, a good deal below my 
model, I soon became possessed, together with 
apart of his excellencies, of every one of his 
blemishes and defects, upon an enlarged scale. 

I next tried the plan of choosing more than 
one model ; but the same process took place, 
and by degrees I found myself possessed in full 



of all their faults. If any one had compared 
me with the persons whom I imitated, I wore 
something of the air of a servant dressed out in 
his master's worst clothes. 

But even this was a small part of the evil : 
I found that every act of imitation tended to 
degrade the mind. I became a coward; and, 
when my safety required it, a liar. Under these 
circumstances, I was not likely to hold a very 
high place in the estimation of the boys. I was, 
in fact, a sort of foot-ball to the whole com- 
munity. Innumerable were the tricks they 
played upon me. My blood even now runs cold 
when I call to mind one of them. — Boys are re- 
markably fond, without precisely going through 
the rites of baptism, of bestowing a new name, 
vulgarly called a nick-name, upon all the rest of 
the world. But, as they had so often presumed 
upon my conformity as to know that I would 
patiently suffer every possible indignity, they 
determined, in my particular case, when they 
bestowed this new name, not to dispense with 



60 

any part of the ceremony; but on the contrary, 
to administer it after the manner of the ancient 
Oriental churches. Accordingly, I was conduct- 
ed to the river; and having received, from the 
concurrent voices of about a hundred sponsors, 
the very honourable appellation of "Sneak," I 
was just about to be plunged, in a December 
morning, into the water, for the necessary ablu- 
tion, when, happily, one of the ushers came to 
my rescue. 

I need scarcely add, that, under circum- 
stances such as these, my situation was daily 
becoming more irksome and intolerable. De- 
jected and ashamed, with no friends but one or 
two to whom my suppleness was convenient, I 
dragged on a miserable existence. And such an 
existence I should probably have continued to 
drag on — and that without even the smallest 
interruption — till this very moment, if I had not 
unexpectedly one morning received the following 
letter from my aunt Rachel. 

But, before I give the letter, let me briefly 



61 

state the history of it. — It seems that her sister 
had for some time profoundly kept the secret of 
my discipline and preparation for school; but 
hearing nothing to the contrary, and conjectur- 
ing, according to the well-known and much ap- 
proved maxim of the world, that " no news is 
good news," my aunt Winifred could no longer 
contain her joy, and exultingly instructed her 
sister by what principle she had qualified me 
for my new situation. Rachel said nothing, but 
shook her head, much in the same way in which 
Cassandra, when predicting the fall of Troy, 
may be supposed to have shaken hers. And 
she shook it with precisely the same success, 
Her sister smiled at her incredible simpli- 
city; and, in that exuberance of good-humour 
which success often inspires even in very 
cross people, she said gaily, u Well, sister, 
we shall see." 

But, if my aunt Rachel was not so profuse as 
to waste her arguments where they were not 



G2 

likely to do any good, she was too conscien- 
tious not to try them where there was at least 
some hope of success ; and, accordingly, that 
very night, she sat up till twelve o'clock pen- 
ning the letter to which I have adverted, and a 
small part of which, out of my great love to the 
public, I shall now copy for their benefit, I 
extract only a small part of it, because the rest 
of the foolscap sheet was occupied with details 
of family occurrences, and, especially, with 
half a dozen incidents calculated to increase 
my love for my aunt Winifred— a point which, I 
must say, my dear aunt Rachel never neglected 
to labour. After this exercise of her charity 
and tenderness, the letter thus proceeded : — 

" I was reading, my dear boy, a few days 
since, a striking story told by a traveller who 
had visited the celebrated Falls of Niagara. As 
he was standing amidst the rocks at the head of 
this stupendous fall, and watching wave after 



wave, as it reached the point where it was pre- 
cipitated some hundreds of feet into the gulf 
beneath, he suddenly saw a canoe with a single 
Indian approaching the awful brink. The poor 
wretch saw his danger; struggled against the 
stream for a few moments ; and then, at the very 
instant when he seemed to be mastering his pe- 
rils, instead of continuing the struggle, with a 
sort of wild despair calmly folded his arms upon 
his bosom, left his canoe to drive with the 
torrent, was hurried over the edge, and shivered 
to a thousand pieces in the rocky gulf below. — 
The story is awful. But I could not help say- 
ing to myself* when I had read it, Things as 
awful take place in the world every day. Life, 
my dear boy, with its customs, habits, and 
amusements, is also a hurried and tempestuous 
stream. The young set sail upon it in their 
little barks ; struggle, perhaps, for a moment, 
with the torrent; then, when every eye is 
bent upon them and confident of their success, 



64 

fold their arms on their bosoms, drive with the 
stream, reach the fatal brink, and sink to rise no 
more. — Beware, my dear Sancho, of getting into 
the stream; beware of imitation; beware of 

* doing as others do/ The only safe rules of 
conduct are to be found in the Bible : the only 
safe model of conduct is that Saviour who was 

* without spot and without blemish/ Love, my 
boy, but do not imitate. 

" Your affectionate aunt, 

" RACHEL ." 

Now it so happened, that, when I received 
this letter, I was lying, very ill at ease indeed^ 
under the shade of an oak near the play-ground. 
I went immediately and fetched a little Bible 
which my aunt had given me ; read several 
chapters in the history of the life and death of 
Christ; and was delighted to find something in 
it so very different from those whom I had hi- 
therto been imitating. Then I prayed to God 



65 

—for the first time in my life, I believe, with 
sincerity — to make me good, to make me inde- 
pendent, to make me a little like my aunt Ra- 
chel, and altogether like Him whom she was 
continually striving and praying to resemble. 

But as I did not persist in petitions such as 
these, this feeling soon decayed. I passed a 
few years of misery and insignificance in the 
school, and was then removed to prepare for 

college But my very many readers from the 

two universities will be justly offended, if I do 
not put my university-history into a distinct 
chapter ; and my profound reverence for those 
learned bodies will not suffer me willingly to 
offer them any offence. 

Before, however, I close this chapter, I have 
a few observations to offer, in extenuation of 
those faults which I have, in this chapter, so 
freely imputed to myself. It is not impossible 
that some of the least charitable part of the 
world, in reading the last pages of this history, 



60 

may have allowed themselves in a feeling in 
some degree allied to contempt, for the very un- 
fortunate author of them. 

Now it may, perhaps, tend to mitigate this 
feeling, if they will call to mind the not improbable 
fact, that they themselves perhaps belong no less 
to the " servum pecus" of imitators than myself. 
Independence, I am disposed to think, is a plant 
of very rare growth indeed. Even that which 
bears the name, is often little better than mere 
imitation. The apparent substance is no more 
than a shadow. In illustration whereof I beg to 
tell the following story. 

On the broad breast of a mountain, in a re- 
mote part of Hungary, a traveller was confound- 
ed to behold an apparition of a most terrific 
aspect. It was at least four hundred feet high ; 
had all the features of a man; carried in its 
hand a massy club, which "ever and anon" it 
swung around, to the infinite horror of the spec- 
tator. Far from bearing any resemblance to 



m 

those quiescent genii sometimes said to be im- 
prisoned in a chest, or in the Red Sea, by the 
hand of Necromancy, it exhibited the most as- 
tonishing activity. The traveller, for instance, 
no sooner moved a step to the right or left, but 
he saw his^ tremendous visitor, as it were in re- 
sentment of the movement, rush with hurried 
step across the mountain. If the traveller ap- 
proached the hill, the giant instantly descended 
it, as though to meet him at its foot. If on the 
contrary, he retired from the hill, he had the 
consolation of seeing the giant immediately re- 
ascend it. — Many saw the phantom, and all 
concurred in regarding it as the most tremendous 
spectre that had ever been suffered to discover 
itself to the pigmy inhabitants of the world. 
None for a moment questioned its total indepen- 
dence of every thing below. At last a celebrated 
philosopher visited the mountain. After par- 
taking, for a time, of the astonishment of the 
other spectators, he set himself to decipher the 



mystery, and actually discovered that the spectre 
was the mere image of himself, reflected by the 
rising sun upon the face of the mountain. How 
did all reverence for the phantom subside ! How 
did the credulous spectators blush to discover 
that all its movements were merely imitative! — 
that the awful circles of his club were the re- 
flected movements of a walking-stick ; and the 
solemn nodding of his helmet, the obscure image 
of a hat and wig put in motion by the wind ! — 
And now to apply my story. I venture, then, 
to assure my readers, that very much of what 
they are pleased to call independence or origi- 
nalit} 7 , in themselves or others, is precisely akin 
to this shadowy visitor — that it is a mere phan- 
tom—a " dream of a dream, and shadow of a 
shade ;" — that man is but the mere creature of 
imitation — that B is too often the mere shadow 
of A, and C of B, and Z of some or all of the 
personages who precede or surround him; — and 
that, after all, nothing is more rare than a per- 



69 

son who honestly and independently studies the 
word of God, to learn his duties as a man and 
as a Christian; and then proceeds, as honestly 
and independently, to discharge those duties. 

If any reader of this volume is able, as I sin- 
cerely hope he may, securely, though humbly, 
to lay his hand upon his heart, and say that he 
is such a man ; — all that I will say, in return, is, 
" Let me have that man for my bosom friend." 

And now for the promised chapter, or, at 
least, for the preface to it. 



70 



CHAP. VIII. 

TRAINING FOR COLLEGE. 

As my aunt's last experiment did not issue in 
any violent catastrophe— or, in other words, as 
I was neither beaten nor expelled for my rigid 
adherence to her maxim — she saw nothing in 
the result of her project which was calculated 
to undeceive her as to its intrinsic value. Nor 
was I myself disposed to undeceive her. My 
long habits of conformity and concession made 
it much more easy and natural for me to attend 
to her, than to require her to attend to truth 
and right reason. Therefore, in spite of what ex- 
perience might have taught me, I adhered to 
proverbs, and to every species of oracular sen- 
tence, with almost as much devotion as my 
aunt herself. If she might be esteemed a knight- 



71 

errant in the cause, I might without presumption 
pretend to the dignity of squire; and was 
scarcely, I venture to say, less true to my 
character than my illustrious namesake and pre- 
decessor. So that when the time for going to 
college approached, I cordially concurred with 
her in thinking that nothing could be more es- 
sential to my right conduct there, than the ju- 
dicious selection of half a dozen of these sage 
maxims, by means of which I, perhaps some- 
what ambitiously, hoped to exhibit, in the short 
space of a three years' residence, the collected 
wisdom of many centuries. 

My aunt Rachel, indeed, would, if an oppor- 
tunity had been given her, have made me familiar 
with a very different kind of wisdom. But then 
her sister always followed so closely and 
watchfully upon her heels ; she talked with 
so much more of an oracular tone ; and, 
moreover, perpetually supplied me with such 
salutary cautions against the fanaticism, &c. of 



72 

her sister, that the mild, gentle creature, had 
rarely the least influence with me, except, 
indeed, when my aunt Winifred was cross. At 
those moments it must be confessed, that I used 
always to hide my cares in her bosom. But, as 
few persons would be more attractive (a case by 
no means uncommon with the whole family of 
scolds, and, in itself, a sufficient demonstration 
how much better they might be if they would,) 
than my aunt Winifred when she had a great 
point to carry, I was not obliged very often, at 
this period of my history, thus to take refuge in 
the tenderness of Rachel. And besides, her 
requisitions were too high for the then forlorn 
state of my mind. She required me to be 
" sans peur," as well as " sans reproche ;' 
which, however possible to a good or a brave 
man, is quite impossible to a man determined to 
" do at Rome as they do at Rome/' 

But to return. — The time was now fixed for 
my departure. My aunt, by dint of an extra 



73 

cup of agrimony, a few additional turns on the 
broad sunny gravel walk, and much mental com- 
munion with the sages of antiquity, at length 
managed to construct the following brief Table 
of Maxims, which I shall present to my reader 
in the precise form in which she delivered it 
to me. 

" MORAL CODE, 

" FOR 

I* MY NEPHEW SANCHO AT COLLEGE 

" COLLECTED 

a FROM THE STORES OF ANCIENT AND MODERN 
" WISDOM, 

" BY WINIFRED - 

" On Religion. 
" 1, ' Many men many minds/ 
" 2. * Seeing is believing.' 
" 3. ' Never too late to repent/ 
" 4. ' The nearer the church the farther 
from God/ 

E 



74 

" On Character. 
" 1. ' Nullum numen abest si sit prudentia ;' " 
or, as my aunt translated it, ' Where prudence 
is, no divinity is absent/ 

" 2. * An honest man's the noblest work of 
God/ 

" On the Choice of Friends. 
" 1. ' A warm enemy makes a warm friend/ 
" 2. * He is no body's enemy but his own/ " 

My aunt, meaning this code to descend as a 
sort of heir-loom to our remotest descendants, 
was at the pains of having it engrossed in double 
jet ink, upon the cherished skin of a family 
donkey which had recently died, by the parish 
school-master ; and, having moreover set the 
family name and seal to it, she consigned it with 
much solemnity to my keeping. 

But let it not be thought that this consignment 
was made without the addition of that in which 
my aunt conceived at least one half of the value 



75 

of the gift to consist. With this code she gave 
her own comments upon it. And that such an 
important document should not be trusted in 
successive ages to the treacherous medium of 
tradition, I shall now insert it in this imperish- 
able volume — presenting to the world, at once, 
my aunt's lecture, and my occasional observa- 
tions and interruptions as she recited its several 
parts. 

" My dear Sancho," she said, " I have, chiefly 
I will own out of compliment to general opinion, 
begun with the subject of religion. You know, 
that I have never maintained any very precise or 
rigid opinions upon that subject; and the maxims 
I shall give you are meant rather to restrain you 
from excess on this subject, than to rouse you 
to any particular warmth of feeling." 

" Then, my dear aunt," said I, " pray be kind 

enough at once to get rid of this superfluous 

part of the code. I do assure you, that I am 

in no danger upon this point. Far from having 

e 2 



76 

any tendency to excess in religion, I scarcely 
remember ever to have had a religious feeling 
in the whole course of my life." 

"My boy," she answered, "when will you 
learn prudence ? You may, as yet, have had no 
such feelings ; but, in this highly enthusiastic 
age, it is by no means improbable that you may 
be thus tempted ; and, therefore, take these 
maxims as a sort of dead weight to hang round 
the neck of rising fanaticism. Their value for 
this purpose is incalculable. Should you be 
leaning, for instance, to any particular modifica- 
tion of religion — what better corrective than the 
truth, ' Many men many minds V Should you, 
again, be tempted to receive any of the popular 
doctrines, most mischievously countenanced 
by the Church of England, about * faith' — what 
more powerful antidote than the maxim, ' Seeing 
is believing]' If in danger of religious melan- 
choly — you may at once defer the consideration 
©fall topics, without limit, on the authority of 



77 

the third important saying, that 1 it is never too 
late to repent/ And, if seduced into any very 
puritanical strictness about attending the church, 
or embracing its bigoted creeds — you may at 
once escape, by remembering, that c the nearer 
the church the farther from God.'" 

I confess, that I was not a little startled at 
the boldness of some of my aunt's positions, 
I, moreover, remembered that a part of the 
pique expressed in them against the Bible, and 
the church, might be referred to two causes; — 
first, to my aunt Rachel's so cordially reverenc- 
ing the Bible ; and, secondly, to the clergyman 
of the village, as honest a creature as ever lived, 
being in the vexatious habit of weekly dealing 
out such plain, pointed, pithy sermons, that my 
aunt Winifred, every Sunday evening, warmly 
protested " every one of them must be preach- 
ed at her." But, however, all the sentiments 
stated above were conveyed in maxims of such- 
acknowledged celebrity, that it was impossible 
e 3 



78 

for a moment to dispute them. She, accord- 
ingly, thus proceeded in her very salutary lec- 
ture. 

" Sancho," she said, " I have passed on from 
religion to general character; and have given 
you, in this department, two maxims which 
mean much the same thing. But could I have 
found ^. volume of maxims, to teach you the 
paramount value of ' prudence/ I would gladly 
have introduced them. Prudence, my boy, is 
the religion of this world. And I am free to 
say, that having this, I do not see the need of 
very much besides. " 

Now, here again I was not, in the smallest 
degree, disposed to question my aunt's accuracy. 
If, indeed, she had in this place substituted for 
the word " prudence" what she really meant by 
it, namely, "worldly policy," I might, perhaps, 
have hesitated for a moment. But who could 
question whether prudence, properly so called, 
was a good thing ? And, admitting this, of all 



79 

people in the world, my aunt was, perhaps, best 
entitled to be heard as a lecturer, a final autho- 
rity, a '* suprema lex," upon this particular 
subject. She herself was that quality embodied. 
I firmly believe that, as far as respected her 
own interest, so inexorably true was she to 
these darling maxims that she scarcely ever was 
guilty of an act of imprudence in the whole 
course of her somewhat protracted life. 
Again she resumed her discourse. — 
" The two last maxims/' she said, " respect 
the choice of friends ; and they need no com- 
ment. Strong alliances are best wrought out of 
strong passions ; just as strong chains must be 
forged in a hot fire. And he who is t no one's 
enemy but his own/ must be best calculated to 
become a friend to every other person." 

My aunt said no more, but took (which in 
her case was always both a cause and a conse- 
quence of joy) an enormous pinch of snuff at 
either nostril, gave me her hand with an inde- 
e 4 



80 

scribable look of self-complacency, and, majes- 
tically quitting the room, left me, I presume, to 
meditate upon the incalculable value of such a 
counsellor, and of such counsels. But, as she 
gave me no express injunctions as to the nature 
of my immediate employment, instead of proceed- 
ing to meditate, I ventured to follow my own 
inclinations, and, accordingly, hurried away to 
break in a pointer-puppy for next September. 
In which occupation, however, I think it but 
just to acknowledge, that I found several of my 
aunt's maxims of incredible advantage; and, in 
the fulness of my satisfaction at the moment, I 
could not help exclaiming, more than once, " If 
so good for pointers, how very good must they 
be for men \" 

I have forgotten to say, that for the three 
months which preceded my removal to college, 
my aunt Rachel had been confined to her room 
with an attack of rheumatism. This circum- 
stance wa&wonderfully convenient for her sister's 



81 

plans. For, apprehending many evil conse- 
quences from our coming in contact, she per- 
sisted, in spite of doctor, nurse, and patient, in 
calling the rheumatism a species of fever— and, 
of course, out of tender regard to my very 
delicate constitution, in prohibiting my approach 
to the scene of a contagious disorder. Accord- 
ingly, I left home for the university, without 
seeing my aunt Rachel. Often has she since 
told me what a pang this cost her. But her 
sufferings little occupied me at the moment. My 
habit, at that period of my life, thanks to aunt 
Winifred's maxims, was to think of no one's 
pangs or pleasures but my own. 

Early in October, I set off for college, where 
those, who have no such repugnance to an uni- 
versity life as to prevent their following me, will 
find me in the next chapter* 



E 5 



82 



CHAP. IX. 

A MORNING IN COLLEGE. 

ON as bright a morning as ever shone upon 
the cloistered windows of an university qua- 
drangle, I opened my eyes in a cot of six feet 
by two and a half, where I had slept most pro- 
foundly for eight hours. I naturally lay in bed 
a short time, to meditate upon my new circum- 
stances. I was possessed of rooms, of a well- 
replenished purse, and of personal independence, 
for the first time in my life. Nor was this all. 
It has been said, that no human figure can, by 
the utmost exertions of art, be so constructed 
as to stand without the addition of some sort of 
fulcrum or prop. How much less, then, can 
the moral man be expected to stand erect, amidst 
the storms of the world, without certain fixed 



S3 

rules or principles of action? But, then, such 
was my singular good fortune, that I was put in 
possession also of thes e. In my trunk lay the 
" code" of my aunt — nothing less than the con- 
densed wisdom, not only of her life, but of many 
lives not less illustrious ; and, according to the 
strict letter and spirit of which, I proposed to 
begin, to continue, and to end my university 
career. Now, all these circumstances presented 
fruitful topics for meditation. But, however 
attractive, they had not power long to detain 
me from rising to put my principles and pri- 
vileges to the proof. I accordingly dressed, 
seated myself at my breakfast table, and entered* 
with much composure and self-gratulation, upon 
the functions of a college life. And I must say, 
that the debut was remarkably favourable to all 
my aunt's schemes. In the general devotion of 
all around to my particular convenience, appe- 
tites, and wishes, expressed or unexpressed, 
I found much to encourage me in that Lnfcuse 



64 

devotion to self which it was the object of her 
maxims so zealously to inculcate. Perhaps, 
indeed, there is no situation in life in which a 
man is more completely at once the centre and 
circumference of his own sphere of being than 
in college. — I would beseech certain comely, 
sleek, rosy, unruffled persons in jet black, still 
to be found meandering about the courts or 
walks of our universities, to remember this 
simple truth. 

After a little more musing, I determined pre- 
cisely to reverse the order of my aunt's maxims, 
and to begin by acting upon those which regu- 
lated the " choice of friends." — Now, Diogenes 
is said to have wandered about with a lantern, 
bunting for an honest man. I did not adopt 
the same expedient in my search for a friend. 
On the contrary, I entered the common hall at 
the sound of a bell at two o'clock, in the full 
confidence, that, not merely a dinner, but a 
friend would be there provided for me. Nor 



85 

were my hopes disappointed. At one table §at 
the juniors of the college, and at another, placed 
transversely, the seniors. I happened to be 
seated near the last-mentioned body, and soon 
discovered, if my aunt's theory on the strong 
passions was accurate, abundant ingredients, 
even in this division of the hall, for all the 
loftiest desires and purposes of friendship. The 
dinner, the weather, the state of the world, and 
especially of that most important part of it — the 
college ; the dangers of the church, the preva- 
lence of sectarism, the new manufactory for 
fan-sticks ; one and each of these topics sufficed 
to call out some of those peculiar and somewhat 
intense order of expressions in which the strong 
passions appear commonly to delight : " Here," 
said I, " if my aunt's principle be true, is at 
once a community of friends. Was ever person 
so fortunate V 

But it was natural for me to search for my 
associates among those of my own age. And 



accordingly I descended from these higher re- 
gions to the minores gentes of the lower table. 
And I beg to certify, that, whether imitative or 
indigenous, the strong passions prevailed suffi- 
ciently in every quarter of our table to exclude 
all necessity of looking higher for friends. 

But here I must pause for a moment, both 
to explain myself and to vindicate the univer- 
sities of these favoured realms. If any one 
expects to find in me a rude assailant of these 
learned bodies, or indeed any thing but their 
friend and champion, he is egregiously mistaken. 
I knew them both some half century since — 
I love them both — and although I do conceive 
them even now susceptible of much improvement, 
especially as to the religious and professional 
education of their youth, I still consider them 
as the best guarantees, under Providence, for 
the learning, the religion, and the welfare of 
the country. Far, very far, be it from me, 
therefore, to join hands with those rude inno- 



87 

vators who would, in despair of her resuscitation 
by a gentler process, hew the Alma-mater to 
pieces, cast her into the fiery kettle of reform, and 
pronounce over her certain incantations in a 
broad Scotch dialect of much imagined efficacy 
in such cases. All intemperate assaults upon 
our colleges and halls are to be met by a confi- 
dent appeal to the thousands of good and great 
men who have issued, and are perpetually issu- 
ing, from their gates. All such unmeasured 
hostility will merely provoke the hallowed indig- 
nation of multitudes, who have there first stoop- 
ed to drink the cool stream of science — there 
first wandered in the groves of philosophy — 
there, especially, first learned to worship the 
God of their fathers ; first learned their guilt, 
and bowed before the Cross of a crucified Sa- 
viour ; first learned their weakness, and cast 
themselves upon the strength and goodness of 
God. With the enemies, then, concealed or 
avowed, of these illustrious bodies, I desire to 



88 

have neither part nor lot. But if there be any 
loving these groves of learning and wisdom like 
myself, who are disposed gently and reverently 
to address the sages who watch over them, and 
to call upon them to add, to " their sound learn- 
ing," somewhat more of " religious education," 
I join hand and heart with these friendly moni- 
tors. I supplicate our instructors to hear and 
obey 1hese salutary monitions ; and I call upon 
God, wherever there is a single spot as yet 
lighted only by the dim and perishable star of 
human science, to shed upon it the holier lustre 
of purity and devotion. Having, in the honesty 
of my heart, said thus much, I return to my 
history. 

Finding the strong passions so predominant 
in all quarters of the college, as to promise a 
large harvest of " warm friends," I thought it 
desirable to search for some person who should 
combine, with this qualification for friendship, 
the second property named by my aunt— that 



of M being no one's enemy but his own/' Ac- 
cordingly, I began my inquiries with much dili- 
gence and circumspection. My aunt abhorred 
precipitancy, and so did I. I determined, there- 
fore, to make no selection till I had collected 
the most overwhelming evidence upon the point. 
At length, however, hearing almost the whole 
college concur in the praise of one individual, 
in calling him a fine fellow — a spirited fellow — 
a real good fellow — a good -hearted fellow— the 
best fellow in the world — and, finally, in declar- 
ing him to be " no body's enemy but his own," I 
ventured to decide, and sought by every possi- 
ble overture to make this individual my friend. 
And as he was a social, easy sort of person, 
and, moreover, a prodigious lover of good eating 
and drinking, I found less difficulty than I had 
anticipated in accomplishing so momentous an 
object. Before a few weeks had elapsed we 
were sworn intimates, and spent almost the 
whole of our time together. And as some of 



my readers may have never had an opportunity 
of very closely examining the life of a person 
who is reputed to be " no body's enemy but 
his own," I shall very liberally give them, with- 
out the smallest deduction, the full benefit of 
my own experience. 

In the first place, I soon perceived that he 
scarcely ever opened a book. Now, in this, he 
was plainly enough his own enemy. But whe- 
ther, in so doing, he was not also the enemy of 
some parent or guardian, who had sent him to 
the university for the very purpose of study ; 
I could not at that moment decide, as I knew 
nothing of his peculiar circumstances. I will 
own, however, that I could not help, even then, 
suspecting — in my better moments at least — 
that, if no enemy to God or man, he was evi- 
dently no friend to either, or he would not have 
consumed talents and time to no purpose, which 
might have been employed to the honour of God, 
and to the benefit of his fellow-creatures. 



91 

In the next place, I soon discovered him, 
especially when elated by wine, to be enthu- 
siastically given to every species of riot and 
disturbance. What is classically termed a 
H row " was his glory. In this case also, when 
I heard the casements of a pauper shiver under 
his fist, or saw the blood of a watchman trickle 
down his cheeks, I certainly found no small 
difficulty in conceiving him to be "no body's 
enemy but his own." 

Moreover, I was not long in ascertaining, 
that he paid no tradesman's bill which he found 
it possible to elude. And it must be confessed, 
that neither the tradesmen thus defrauded (espe- 
cially when they dated their letters from the 
town gaol), or their wives and children, ever 
had the generosity to concur in the declaration 
that he was "no body's enemy but his own." 

Finally, I perceived that his various exploits 
were not accomplished without a most enormous 
expenditure. And what was my horror to learn, 



92 

after a short time, that this man of " strong 
passions'* — this " good-hearted fellow" — this 
" best fellow in the world" — this " enemy to 
none but himself" — was, in fact, the only son 
of a widow living in a garret, who had eco- 
nomised by abstinence, by days and nights 
of patient toil, by racking and screwing her 
aged sinews, the sum of money which he in a. 
few months had squandered at college. She 
was the destitute widow of a clergyman — 
shame to the country there should be any such ! 
— and the wish of her heart had been to hear 
her son proclaim to the world the principles by 
which her husband had lived well, and died 
triumphantly. Such was her wish — such her 
endeavour to realize it — and such the fruits 
which this " real good fellow" paid back into 
the bosom of his aged mother. On a visit to 
London, I accidentally discovered his house ; 
surprised him in the company of his distracted 
mother; and shall to my dying day thrill when 



93 

I call to mind the tone and countenance with 
which she exclaimed, 

" How keener than a serpent's tooth it is 
To have a thankless child ! ■' 

I left the house in disgust, resolved that, 
whatever might be the consequence, I would 
never choose for my friend the man who was 
said to be " no body's enemy but his own." 
And experience has served to confirm me in 
the resolution. I have generally found such 
persons " warm enemies'' perhaps, but certainly 
cold friends — if men of " strong passions/' yet 
of little real sensibility— men, finally, who, with 
few exceptions, thought, felt, schemed, lived for 
themselves, and themselves alone. In short, I 
have generally discovered reason in such cases 
exactly to reverse the estimate of the world, 
and to consider these persons as in fact " every 
one's enemy, but their own." And here I shall 
conclude the chapter, in order to give the reader 
time to determine whether he ought not to come 



94 

to the same conclusion with myself. And hav- 
ing decided upon this point, I would entreat 
him further to consider, whether he can employ 
for himself, or impart to his children, a safer 
rule for the selection of friends, than the old- 
fashioned saying of my dear aunt Rachel — 
"Take for your friends those, and those only, 
who are the friends of God." 



95 



CHAP. X. 

A MERE "HONEST MAN" IS NOT "THE 
NOBLEST WORK OF GOD." 

IT was scarcely possible that the events re- 
corded in the last chapter should not have filled 
me with disgust for extravagance, and all its 
train of associate vices. But this was not their 
only, nor, as my aunt would have said, their 
happiest result : they left me in the best pos- 
sible mood for carrying into effect the pruden- 
tial maxims contained in the second department 
of her code. He has a very limited acquaint- 
ance with human nature, who does not know 
our tendency in avoiding one extreme to run 
into the opposite. Accordingly, I sat down 
to the study of this division of the code with 
the keenest possible appetite, and rose up de- 
termined, whatever might be my practice as 



96 

to other points, to become a prudent and an 
honest man. 

But, having before discovered the uselessness 
of all vague and general resolutions, I deter- 
mined to begin by accurately ascertaining the 
meaning of the words " honesty " and "pru- 
dence/* as employed in my aunt's code. And, 
after nearly a day's severe study, I came to the 
conclusion, that " prudence " meant " a rigid 
attention to our own worldly interest;" and 
" honesty/' the " exact payment of our debts.'* 

As, moreover, I had previously felt the in- 
convenience of being called into action before 
I had proved my principles, I resolved, in the 
present instance, to prepare myself for action by 
much private discipline. Accordingly, I accus- 
tomed myself to hold long mental dialogues with 
" Prudence ; " and, having an excellent por- 
trait of my aunt suspended over the fire-place, 
I used, in order to give these dialogues more 
effect, to personify Benevolence, or any gentle 



07 

virtue, myself, — and to make her, by means of 
her picture, personify Prudence. Thus cir- 
cumstanced, I was accustomed to hold dialogues 
with the picture, of which, I venture to say, 
Erasmus himself need scarcely have been 
ashamed. Such, indeed, was the sort of fami- 
liarity I acquired in this sort of silent con- 
verse, that at length, whatever might be the 
occasion, I had nothing to do but to look at the 
picture, and I seemed to hear all that prudence 

and my aunt had to say on the occasion. But 

it is time the reader should be permitted to judge 
for himself of the effects produced by these 
dialogues upon my character and conduct. 

In the first place, then, I was soon very sen- 
sibly mortified by finding myself altogether 
without a friend. For the fact is, that, in the 
eagerness of my conformity to my aunt's maxim, 
I had become either too prudent to choose a 
friend, or, if chosen, to commit myself to him. 
Friendship requires unreserve— which prudence, 
F 



98 

in my aunt's sense of the word, sternly prohibits. 
Friendship must be generous — mere prudence 
is harsh. Friendship must be a little blind and 
deaf — whereas mere prudence is all eye and 
ear for the faults of others. I remember, that, 
once or twice, when I was in danger of being 
betrayed into something like candour and open- 
ness by the frankness of a visitor, my aunt's 
picture seemed, like the celebrated Madona at 
Rome, almost to frown upon me for my im- 
becility. 

In the next place, I soon became such an in- 
veterate enemy to every thing new, as sometimes 
to involve myself in the most unpleasant conse- 
quences. Twice, for instance, I nearly forfeited 
my life by my pertinacious and romantic adhe- 
rence to the practices of antiquity— first, by my 
resolute rejection, in a violent attack of small- 
pox, to the then somewhat novel remedy of inocu- 
lation; and, secondly, by resolutely excluding, 
upon the authority of the ancients, every breath 



99 

of air, in a fever, which required me to be kept 
as cool as possible. I am, moreover, firmly 
persuaded that I should have been among those 
who condemned Galileo to expiate upon the 
scaffold the novel crime of asserting the earth to 
move round the sun — on this great principle, 
that " old falsehoods are better than new truths." 

Nor was this all. Prudence, like the lean 
kine of Egypt, soon devoured every nobler 
principle. I ceased to sympathise, to pity, to 
feel. If a case of charity presented itself, I did 
but look at the picture, and it said, or seemed to 
say, in language not seldom employed by my 
aunt, " A fool and his money are soon parted ;" 
" A penny saved is a penny got;" " Money makes 
the man;" and who could resist such accumu- 
lated authorities? 

Perhaps, however, the reader may prefer facts 

to statements on this particular subject. I shall 

therefore candidly record an incident in my 

history, at thia period, which fairly exhibits the 

F2 



100 

state of my own mind, and the mortification to 
which it sometimes exposed me. 

A society of Churchmen, who had, for the 
last century, been engaged, among other bene- 
volent designs, in conveying the knowledge of 
Christianity to the Heathen, convened a meeting 
near my aunt's mansion-house, to consider the 
means of extending to about sixty millions of 
poor idolatrous Hindoos the knowledge of Chris- 
tianity. Now, whatever Religion and sound 
Wisdom might urge upon so plain a point, mere 
Prudence could not but be alarmed at an 
attempt, however quiet, to disturb the creed of 
sixty millions of people. Accordingly, having 
entered the assembly, I rose, and, to the admi- 
ration of my aunt, made the following oration. 

" I rise, Sir, to oppose the motion which has 
been submitted to this assembly, on the follow- 
ing grounds : — 

" In the first place, The Hindoos are savages, 
and Christianity was not designed for savages. 



101 

u In the second place, The Religion of the 
Hindoos is a very good religion — why, then, 
should we try to change it? 

u In the third place, Their religion has made 
them excellent slaves for centuries — why, then, 
teach them a religion which is fit only for free 
men] 

u In the fourth place, They are sunk so very 
deep in vice and misery that it is impossible to 
release them from it — why, then, attempt it 1 

" In the fifth place, Who would think of be- 
ginning to convert foreign nations, till we have 
converted every one of our own people ? 

" Sixthly, When the time comes for the general 
conversion of the world, some sign will be sent 
from Heaven to tell us of it. 

" Such, Sir, are my reasons for resisting the 
measure ; and whoever promotes it, and opposes 
me, is an enthusiast, and an enemy to the King 
and to the Church of England." 

Having made my speech, I will own that I 
F3 



102 

expected, as the very smallest return, the loud 
acclamations of the astonished assembly. But 
a most profound silence ensued ; till a cler- 
gyman, who, as I then thought, looked old 
enough to know better, arose, and thus ad- 
dressed the assembly: — 

" Instead, Sir, of replying directly to the rea- 
sonings of the speaker who has preceded me, 
I will simply put another case, and request his 
decision upon it. Suppose, instead of the pre- 
sent assembly, a thousand Peruvians convened 
on the banks of the Amazon, to take into con- 
sideration a supplication from the nations of 
Europe to supply them with that bark of Peru 
which is the only known antidote for a very large 
class of our diseases. And conceive, if you 
will, the preceding speaker, who, I am sure, 
would be happy to undertake the embassage, to 
be the advocate for these feverish and aguish 
nations to the only possessors of this antidote. 
Imagine him to arise amidst the tawny multi- 



103 

tude, and, with much feeling and emphasis, to 
state, that at least sixty millions of people de- 
pended upon their determination for health and 
life. At once, I am persuaded, the cry of that 
multitude would interrupt the pleadings of the 
orator, and one, and all, would exclaim, ' Give 
them bark ! give them bark ! and let not an 
European perish, whom it is possible for a Pe- 
ruvian to save.' Thus far all would be well. 
But conceive, instead of the assembly being 
permitted to act upon this benevolent decision* 
some Peruvian, of an age in which the preva- 
lence of policy or mere prudence over justice 
and benevolence is more intelligible and par- 
donable, to arise, and thus to address his coun- 
trymen : 

" ' Peruvians, you are far too precipitate. 
Consider, I beseech you, the character and 
circumstances of the persons for whom this pri- 
vilege is demanded. 

" ' In the first place, They are civilized 
f4 



J04 

nations ; — they read and write ; they sleep in 
beds, and ride in coaches ; they wear coats and 
trowsers; — who, then, will say that bark is 
meant for such persons as these ? 

" ' In the second place, Their fevers and agues 
may have many excellencies with which we are 
unacquainted — why, then, attempt to cure them? 

" ' In the third place, These fevers and agues 
assist exceedingly to thin their armies — why, 
then, strengthen them, merely to destroy our- 
selves ? 

" ' Fourthly, These fevers and agues are so 
deep seated and violent, that it is impossible to 
cure them — why, then, attempt it? 

" ' In the fifth place, Who would think of 
curing foreign nations, till we have cured all the 
sick in Peru ? 

6< ' Sixthly, When the time comes for the ge- 
neral cure of fevers and agues, I have no doubt 
that the Great Spirit will give us some sign from 
the mountains. 



105 

" ? Such, Peruvians, are my reasons for op- 
posing the wish of the speaker; and whoever 
promotes it, or opposes me, is a madman, and 
an enemy both to the Incas and the Great 
Spirit/ 

" Now, then," continued the old clergyman, 
" supposing the Peruvian orator thus to reason, 
I should be glad to know by what answer that 
young gentleman would repel his arguments." 

He then, to my infinite horror, sat down, and 
left me with the eyes of the assembly fixed 
upon me, as if waiting for my reply; but not 
having any precisely ready, I thought it best to 
be taken suddenly ill, and to leave the room. 

I was not, however, so easily to get rid of my 
speech and the reply to it. I scarcely dared 
shew my face in the country, where I was uni- 
versally known, for some time, by the name of 
" the Peruvian." Indeed, almost every body 
seemed to rejoice in my mortification, except 
the immediate author of it. He was one of the 
f 5 



106 

first persons who visited me in college after my 
return from this meeting, and, taking me very 
kindly by the hand, he said, " I venture to hope 
that this slight pang may save you from many 
worse. And this it will do, if it leads you to 
examine and reject the principle on which I am 
disposed to think your opinion is founded." 

** That/' said I proudly, " I am by no means 
likely to do; for it is nothing less than the 
indisputable maxim, ' Nullum numen abest si 
sit prudentia ; ' or, as my aunt translates it, 
1 Where prudence is, no divinity is absent.' ¥ 

" With due deference," replied the old gen- 
tleman, "both to the author and translator of 
the maxim, I should rather say, that where 
policy is, no virtue is present : I am sure cha- 
rity is not/ 

*' Charity," said I, " you are to recollect, 
" begins at home." 

" If it does/' replied he, " it is not unlikely, 
I fear, also to end there. Real charity, my 



107 

young friend, descends from Heaven, Allow 
me to tell you a story. One of the biogra- 
phers of Archbishop Usher tells us, that this 
prelate was wrecked upon a very desolate part 
of the coast. Under these circumstances, and 
in a most forlorn condition, he applied for assist- 
ance to a clergyman of a very prudent cast, 
stating, among other claims, his sacred profes- 
sion. The clergyman rudely questioned the 
fact, and told him, peevishly, that he doubted 
whether he even knew the number of the Com- 
mandments. * Indeed I do/ replied the Arch- 
bishop, mildly : ■ there are eleven/ ' Eleven ! ' 
answered the catechist: 'tell me the eleventh, 
and I will assist you/ 

" ' Obey the eleventh/ said the Archbishop, 
< and you certainly will assist me— A new com- 
mandment give I unto you, that ye love one 
another/ 

" Now/' continued my visitor, " this eleventh 
commandment is worth a volume of mere pru- 



% 



1«8 



deutial maxims. Remember this, and perhaps 
it will be real prudence to burn all the rest." 

" Perhaps it will," said I — for the truth is, 
he spoke so tenderly, and so very like my aunt 
Rachel, and I had discovered mere prudence 
and honesty to be such unproductive and un- 
comfortable qualities, that I was nearly as 
anxious to try some other source of happiness as 
my adviser to recommend the trial. — " Perhaps 
it will/' then, said I. And, accordingly, no 
sooner was he gone, than I determined upon 
the formal annihilation of this second part of 
the code ; and, applying a pen-knife pretty re- 
solutely to this portion of the parchment, I had 
soon the exquisite satisfaction of hearing it hiss 
in the fire. Moreover, fearing the fascination of 
my aunt's countenance, I sent the very same 
evening for a limner of considerable reputation, 
and engaged him, by a few masterly touches, to 
get rid of the afore-mentioned prudential, cold, 
calculating cast which predominated in her por- 



109 

trait. And this being accomplished, I further 
contracted with him to throw something of an 
opposite character into the mouth and eyes, by 
which I might be stimulated to kindness. All 
which, I must add, he executed to my perfect 
satisfaction — so that whoever shall compare 
that picture with any other of my aunt, which 
still glitters in antiquated majesty upon the 
walls of the family mansion, will be delighted to 
discover how successfully in this portrait, as in 
those of some other persons, art has kindly sup- 
plied the deficiencies and remedied the defects 
of nature. 

I think it well, however, to add, that one of 
the evils arising out of this very seducing pro- 
perty of the fine arts is, that men are tempted 
to transfer it to the sketches they make of their 
own mind and character. But I love my readers 
too well, not earnestly to beseech them never, 
in such delineations, to borrow the flattering 



110 

pencil of the artist. And that they may now, 
as they always ought before they go to rest, sit 
to themselves for a few moments, and, in so 
doing, avail themselves of the above caution, I 
will at once put an end to the chapter. 



Ill 



CHAP, XL 

THE WAY TO BE NO CHRISTIAN. 

REAL charity, then," said I, repeating the 
old clergyman's words, " according to this good 
man, descends from Heaven." 

Here was thesis enough for a very extensive 
argument; and I did not quit the subject till I 
had come to a fixed resolution to devote myself 
to the study of religion — a subject which, as it 
will be remembered, my aunt declared herself 
to have noticed " only in compliment to general 
opinion." 

Now, it is but just to myself to confess, that 
my resolution, on this occasion, was not dictated 
by the same motive with that of my aunt. I 
was by no means in good humour with the 
world ; and, therefore, in no degree disposed to 



112 

pay any deference to its opinions. But then, 
I was also violently out of humour with myself 
and my way of life ; and this state of mind 
naturally prompted me to seek my happiness in 
any new pursuit.— I will acknowledge that my 
recent disappointments had for a moment shaken 
my confidence in my aunt's opinions — so that her 
contempt for religion, perhaps, a little exalted it 
in my esteem. But if these suspicions carried me 
thus far, they did not lead me on to the despe- 
rate length of disputing the worth of the maxims 
on the subject of religion contained in the 
code. Though I could consent at the moment 
to abandon my aunt, I could not at once take 
so tremendous a leap as, simultaneously, to 
abandon her and those proverbs which I had 
valued perhaps more highly than herself. In- 
deed, had not my nature in itself abhorred pre- 
cipitancy, the accredited and much-admired 
maxim of u looking before we leap/' stood in 
the way of all such sudden apostacy. I adopt- 



113 

ed, therefore, the half measure of studying the 
subject denounced by my aunt, but of studying 
it by the light of the maxims which she herself 
prescribed. Duty to myself seemed to require 
thus much— duty to my aunt to allow no more. 

My reader may now, therefore, if he please, 
conceive me in my walks, in my chair, in my bed, 
by day and by night, endeavouring to thread 
the mazes of religious controversy with these 
mystical clues in my hand. And possibly he 
can predict the result of the attempt. But, lest 
he should fail, I think it right very faithfully to 
record it. 

Now, in the first place, it is most certain that 
truth and error are not the same thing — that it 
is not indifferent what opinions we embrace — 
that the high and holy God is not alike satisfied 
with the mere fancies of man, and the dictates 
of his own hallowed word. And, under the 
influence of these very obvious truths, I was ac- 
tually setting down to a creed very like that 



114 

which I had every week thoughtlessly or incre- 
dulously rehearsed in church, when, as my aunt 
had predicted, her first proverb, " Many men 
many minds," came to the rescue of my incre- 
dulity. " If," said I (very sagely, as my aunt 
would have thought) to myself, "many men have 
many minds — if there are almost as many opi- 
nions as human beings — who can have any 
right to decide between them V And although 
it be true that the variety of opinions cannot 
change the truth — that the sun is equally bright, 
although every beholder should choose to deny 
that it shines — and that, although men have 
" many minds," God has but one: — as no one 
of these palpable truths had the good fortune 
to be conveyed in a trite popular maxim, they 
could endure no competition with the brief, 
pithy, pointed saying," Many men many minds/' 
In conclusion, as so many persons doubted, 
I decided to add myself to the community of 
doubters. Cheerless, indeed, was the region 



115 

into which I then entered. " Shadows, clouds, 
and darkness rest upon it," and upon the unfor- 
tunate creature who pitches his tent upon 

its cold and barren mountains. But let us 

proceed. 

Doubter as 1 was, there were moments when 
the overwhelming evidence of religion — when its 
correspondence with the wants and sufferings of 
a poor fallen creature — w hen the mild and 
touching eloquence of the sacred writings — 
when the glowing and awful pictures of an in- 
visible world — a little disturbed my unbelief. 
But, at these moments, that second brief maxim, 
M Seeing is believing, never failed to come to 
the aid of the first, and to sustain its wavering 
authority. " If," said I to myself, " we are to 
believe only what we see, what can be more 
evident than that all the scenes of an invisible 
world are but " airy nothings/' the heated vi- 
sions of a distempered imagination] — It might, 
indeed, have occurred to me, that if we believe 



116 

exclusively what we see, our belief will be con- 
fined to a very few points indeed. The Indian, 
for instance, must not believe that there are 
countries where the water hardens into ice— 
the inhabitants of the temperate zone must not 
admit that the sun continues above the horizon 
of any country for more than twenty- four hours 
— every man, in short, must peremptorily reject 
every fact which occurs at a time, hour, or place, 
that removes it from his ocular observation. 
But here again, as these plain truths were not so 
fortunate as to be conveyed in any light, por- 
table, popular saying, they had little chance 
with those which are thus fortunate; and accord- 
ingly, even without eyes in my head, I should 
have continued, I believe, to exclaim, "Seeing is 
believing." 

It may be thought, that, with two such 
powerful maxims at command, the rest of my 
aunt's proverbs would be superfluous. But 
whoever is of this opinion, is not well acquaint- 



117 

ed, I apprehend, with the melancholy state of 
a sceptical mind. Most of those who proclaim 
religion to be false, have, nevertheless, occa- 
sional suspicions of its truth. I have seen many 
stout declaimers against fanaticism, who, in 
sickness, or in danger, or even in the dark, have 
discovered, like Tiberius in a thunder-storm, 
very unequivocal symptoms of orthodoxy; and I 
will freely own myself to have been of this num- 
ber. Sometimes, moreover, a pointed sermon 
cut a little deeper than it was to the credit of 
my consistency to admit. It was in such cir- 
cumstances that I found a never-failing refuge 
in that third maxim of my aunt, " It is never 
too late to repent." " If, said I to myself, 
" I should chance to be wrong, I may at least 
mend whenever I please/' 

Nor must it be thought that the insertion of 
my aunt's fourth maxim in the code was a mere 
work of supererogation. Scarcely any thing 
more endangered my credulity than the services 



118 

of the Church of England. Their mild and 
catholic spirit, their cheerful and affectionate 
language, their lofty and almost awful simplicity, 
at times so laid hold of the softer parts of my 
nature, that I found myself insensibly bowing my 
knees among her worshippers, and addressing 
the God of my fathers in the language they de- 
lighted to employ. And what might have been 
the final influence of these formularies upon me 
it is impossible to say, had not my very dutiful 
memory continually suggested to me the senti- 
ment, " The nearer the church the farther 
from God." By dint of which very powerful 
maxim I easily arrived at the conclusion, That 
all churchman ship was hypocrisy; and that the 
nobler the prayers the greater the certainty 
of their being neither sincerely offered, nor 
mercifully accepted in Heaven, 

And here let me do the Church of my coun- 
try the justice to say, that her piety and her 
services are grievously disparaged, and that by 



It!) 

many excellent men. I know of no body of 
Christians where, on the whole, more piety is to 
be found. I know of none where the piety is of a 
nobler cast. I know of no services better calcu- 
lated to chastise the excesses, without chaining 
down the free spirit, of devotion. One of the 
excellencies of the Church is, that the moderate 
generally love her. Another is this, that the im- 
moderate usually condemn her. And a third, that 
her formularies contain a body of truths nearer 
to the opinions of all contending parties than 
the opinions of those parties are to each other ; 
and that, consequently, they in a measure pre- 
sent a common centre to the disputants of all 
ages and countries. And when, to cheer my 
aged eyes, I conjure up those visions of uni- 
versal harmony in the Church of Christ which 
many of my ancestors delighted to contemplate, 
I can fancy no hands which are better calculated 
to tie the holy bands of universal union and love 
than those of our mother the Church. It is 



120 

true that her venerable garment is not without 
a few spots — spots, I grieve to say, inflicted by 
some of her unworthy children. But let them, 
in the strength of their God, arise; let them 
cleanse her from the smallest stain of a secular 
spirit, of bigotry, or of indifference, which may 
cleave to her ; let her be " brought to the King" 
in her own spotless and holy robe; and many 
"virgins" — many a community of pure and 
simple Christians, hitherto alienated from her 
community, partly by prejudice, partly by the 
misconduct of her professed friends — shall " be- 
come her companions," and shall " enter " with 
her " into the King's palace/' I may not live 
to see the union ; but my old veins seem to 
beat with new life, when I allow myself to con- 
template, even at a distance, the day in which 
my honoured countrymen will all remember 
they are " brethren," and no longer " fall out 
by the way." 

But I have digressed from the history of what 



1-21 

I was at Uiat time to describe, my present feel- 
ings. At the point of my story where this 
digression took place, nothing conld be farther 
from my mind than any such thoughts or desires. 
I disliked Religion, and in the same degree 
disliked the Church. 

And here I close this chapter, in order to 
give the reader an opportunity of asking him- 
self one of the two following questions : 

1st, Whether his own religion does not con- 
sist chiefly in bitter hostility to the forms of 
the Church of England? 

2d, Whether it does not consist chiefly in 
empty reverence for those forms? 

If the reader plead guilty to the charge in- 
volved in the last of these questions, I most 
affectionately beg to remind him how studiously 
the Church herself exposes this error, and how 
zealously she repels such heartless and un- 
meaning homage. — If, on the contrary, he plead 
guilty to the former, I beg him to recollect, that 
G 



122 

a hatred of form is just as much bigotry, and 
just as little religion, as a mere attachment to 
it. And if, unhappily, he should be displeased 
with this information, all the revenge I will take 
is, to wish, and to pray, that he may become as 
good and as happy as the combined spirit and 
form of the Church of England have a tendency 
to render him. And happier or better than 
this, I expect to see no man on this side the 
grave. 



123 



CHAP. XII. 

AN EVENT ABOUT WHICH NO SCEPTIC 
EVER DOUBTED. 

xi OW long, without any change of circum- 
stances, I might have continued in the same 
cheerless state, or to what lower depth of 
infidelity and wretchedness I might have sunk, 
it is impossible to say: but as I was one day 
sitting in my rooms, in an arm-chair which was 
the favourite scene of my musings, and was 
diligently reading a celebrated work on " the 
hidden joys of free-thinking," an express sud- 
denly brought me the intelligence that my aunt 
Winifred was dead. 

u Dead ! " said I to the servant : " What ! 
suddenly, and without any warning ?" 

" Dead ! M he replied ; " and, as my mistress 
always said, * it is a happy release/ * 
G2 



124 

I asked no more questions; but leaped into 
a chaise, and proceeded direct to the family 
mansion. But the comment of the servant on 
the sudden death of my aunt continued to sound 
in my ears. The words he .had used had, 
indeed, been as often in the mouth of his mis- 
tress as the bell chanced to toll in the parisli ; 
and what she had so liberally applied to others, 
he thought fairly due to herself. Familiar, how- 
ever, as this saying was to every member of 
her family, I never seemed to have weighed the 
full meaning of it before ; but now I found my 
attention irresistibly drawn to it. " If," said I 
to myself, " my poor aunt is gone to heaven ; 
it is indeed i a happy release ' to escape from a 
world such as this. If she is even annihilated; 
it is better not to be than to be miserable. If, 
however, the Bible is true, and all my doubts 
and all her doubts are ill founded; then death 
may be very far from ' a happy release/ " 

Surrounded by the terrible virfons which this 



125 

last supposition was likely to call up, I almost 
wished myself religious ; and, at the moment, 
had I known the prayer, " Lord, I believe : 
help thou my unbelief/' I do think, that, between 
doubt and conviction, I should have been 
tempted to offer it. 

When I arrived at home, the state of things 
was by no means such as either to raise my 
spirits, or to dissipate the sort of terror 
with which I regarded my aunt's fate. A sort 
of solemn awe seemed to reign through the 
family. Not a tear of affectionate sorrow ap- 
peared to be shed by the servants. No poor 
villagers came to inquire into the fate of their 
benefactress. No officious attendant on her 
sick or dying bed conveyed to the gloomy circle 
the cheering intelligence of a single prayer she 
had offered, of a single hope she had expressed, 
or of a single sign of inward and unutterable 
peace and joy which she had made. No 
person, however familiar with the page of in- 
G 3 



vm 

spiration, dared at that instant to alter a wish, 
" Let ray latter end be like hers." 

It was scarcely possible for me not to express 
a desire to see all that remained of her who 
had been my earliest and most constant friend. 
Otherwise, I will freely own, that I should have 
been glad to have escaped the spectacle. It is 
a singular feature of the mind, that the least re- 
ligious persons are often the most superstitious. 
The sailor, perhaps amidst a volley of oaths, 
nails the propitious horse-shoe to the mast. 
The solution of this fact probably is, that the 
man of piety, whilst he believes in the existence 
of a world of spirits, feels himself to be under 
the protection of that merciful Being who con- 
trouls them all; but the irreligious man, though 
he believes little, suspects much, and has no- 
thing to oppose to his possible dangers. Be 
this, however, as it may with regard to others, 
certainly few persons were more truly super- 
stitious and timid than myself. I always shrunk 



127 

from a scene of death ; felt much more than I 
chose to confess at the flight of what is called a 
" coffin" from the fire, or at the appearance of 
a " winding-sheet " in the candle; and never 
failed to cross the church-yard with a veiy 
wary eye, hurried step, and palpitating bosom. 
The reader, then, will not wonder that I felt the 
dislike I have expressed to a visit to my aunt's 
chamber. Perhaps this dread was increased 
by my having lately perused, in the works of 
some of the Port-Royalists, the terrific history 
of the conversion of their founder, Bruno ; 
which I here record, for the benefit of per- 
sons unread in their innumerable and immea- 
surable volumes. 

Bruno, it appears, had an intimate friend, of 
a profligate character, of the name of Raymond. 
Raymond suddenly fell to the ground in a fit of 
apoplexy. No doubts were entertained of his 
being dead ; and he was accordingly borne, by 
torch-light, in an open coffin, under the co- 
G 4 



128 

vering of a pall, to his grave. Bruno was, of 
course, among Ibe mourners. The chapel was 
hung with black, and lighted by innumerable 

tapers. The anthem of death began when 

suddenly, says the annalist, the pall was slowly 
lifted, the supposed corpse erected itself on the 
bier, fixed its glazed eyes upon Bruno, and, in 
the hollow voice of anguish, solemnly pronounced 
the awful words — " Justo judicio Dei appellatus 
sum! Justo judicio Dei judicatus sum! Justo 
judicio Dei condemnatus sum !" — and then, with 
a hollow groan of despair, fell back to speak 
no more ! 

Now, it is very true that the authority of this 
story is not remarkably good ; but very slight 
evidence of danger will satisfy a coward; and 
such, in the largest sense of the word, had I 
the misfortune to be. 

It is not easy, therefore, to conceive the 
sensation of dread with which I heard the door 
fasten that enclosed me in the same room with 



129 

the breathless body of my aunt. Nevertheless, 
by that sort of controul exercised over our 
senses by terrible objects, I felt my eyes irre- 
sistibly fixed upon the countenance I had so 
often watched, studied, feared. And, though 
I saw nothing of those supernatural horrors 
which serve to swell the stories of superstition ; 
though my aunt neither sighed from her coffin, 
nor arose in it to address me; yet I seemed to 
see on her pale forehead a frown of deep and 
unutterable despair, which spoke terrible things 
to my soul. What would I have given, at the 
moment, to discover any sign of peace or joy 
— to hear a voice which said, " To me, to die 
is gain ! " 

I know of no circumstances in which it is so 
difficult to be a sceptic, and in which the truths 
of religion take such easy and complete pos- 
session of the mind, as in the chamber of death. 
Who can believe the prostrate ruin before us to 
be all that survives of man? The plant and 
G 5 



130 

the animal reach their maturity before tiiej 
perish; but the soul is plainly only in the in- 
fancy of its powers, when the body falls a 
victim to disease — the imagination has scarcely 
tried his wings; the judgment is only beginning 
to exercise its powers ; the memory is conti- 
nually adding to its stores ; every faculty, in 
short, is either developing new powers or ac- 
cumulating fresh possessions. And can God 
have made such a creature as man in vain 1 
Can he have struck off from himself so bright 
a ray of intelligence only to extinguish it in a 
moment? If not, then how monstrous is scep- 
ticism, how reasonable is religion, and how 
essential a Saviour to cancel the faults of a 
creature at once so highly endowed and so very 
deep in guilt ! 

These, and many such reflections, hurried 
through my mind in the few moments I passed 
in my aunt's chamber. I will not say that they 
left me convinced of the truth of religion, but 



131 

they disposed me to believe that there was no 
true happiness without it. 

My first interview with my surviving aunt 
was of the most painful nature. Her sister had 
so strictly interdicted all religious intercourse 
between us, and my own growing gloom and 
severity had so strengthened the barrier, that 
she was completely a stranger to my opinions. 
When we met, I said nothing ; and she- was, 
after along silence, able only to say, " We 
have both lost a friend, Sancho : God grant 
that we may love one another the better." I 
could see, indeed, that many weighty subjects 
were pressing on her mind; but we had so few 
opinions and feelings in common, that all com- 
munication was very difficult between us. 

It was not long, moreover, before I dis- 
covered another obstacle to any such inter- 
course. Upon reading her sister's will, what 
was my astonishment and indignation to find, 
that, in spite of every pledge formerly given, 



132 

she had left me only a very moderate legacy, 
and my aunt Rachel the bulk of her fortune ! 
In the quickness of my resentment, I did not 
fail to attribute this act of the one sister to 
the policy and stratagems of the other ; and, 
accordingly, I determined to revenge myself by 
unalterable silence and chilling disdain. True 
it was, that my aunt looked most provokingly 
simple and innocent — that her heart seemed to 
be absorbed by the loss itself, instead of dwell- 
ing upon its consequences — that she discovered, 
in her manner at least, none of the hatred said 
by the Roman Annalist to be felt towards the 
injured by those who have injured them. But 
what of all this] She was rich, and I was poor 
— and who could forgive such a mortal offence 1 
But as I am now entering upon a period of 
my history with every movement of which my 
now only remaining aunt was intimately con- 
nected, I reserve the account of our mutual 
proceedings for a new chapter. In the mean 



133 

time, the reader will not fail to observe, that 
the want of religion was, in my case, accom- 
panied by none of the lofty qualities with which 
the imagination of the irreligious is accustomed 
to adorn it. Nor could I ever, by the strictest 
examination, discover the smallest tendency in 
irreligion to produce great or generous qualities. 
The man who does not love God rarely fails 
intensely to love himself; and the mind cannot 
thus stoop from the highest to the lowest object 
of veneration, without a corresponding debase- 
ment. He who would be great, must contem- 
plate great objects; and whilst the philosopher 
prescribes to those who aspire to the sublime 
in conduct or literature, to present to them- 
selves some " beau ideal," some shadowy image 
of perfection, the saint sees in his God the 
Perfect Being of which philosophy dreamt. In 
the shades of his retirement, or on the steps of 
the altar, he surrounds himself with Deity — 
he launches out into the depth of the Divine 



131 

perfections— he becomes great, by gazing upon 
Immeasurable Greatness — he becomes, in a mea- 
sure, u like " God, for he sees him " as he is." 
How little, on the contrary, those become who 
take the opposite course, may be fully ascer- 
tained by reading the following chapter. 



135 



CHAP. XIII. 

JOURNAL OF A SELFISH AND DISAP- 
POINTED MAN. 

1 HAVE promised the reader to exhibit in this 
chapter an example of the debasing influence of 
irreligion on the character. Ashamed am I to 
say, that the unfortunate creature to be thus 
exhibited is myself. It so chances, however, 
that I am released from the overwhelming task 
of delineating afresh my own deformities, by 
having found, tied up in a bundle of manuscript 
arguments against Christianity, the following 
page of a diary written at the period at which 
this history has now arrived. The reader, 
when he has examined this journal of about 
twelve hours of my life, will not fail to acknow- 
ledge my extraordinary candour in thus pre- 
senting it to him. It may fairly, I conceive, 



136 

have prefixed to it the title which stands at the 
head of this chapter. 

" Eight o'clock. Awoke, if it can be call- 
ed awaking from that which is not sleep — 
Dreamt all night of unpleasant things — fancied 
myself sitting in my own carriage, which sud- 
denly turned to a dirty cart — fancied Roger the 
butler treading on my toes, in his haste to make 
a bow to my aunt Rachel— fancied myself look- 
ing over the family title-deeds, which changed 
in a moment into college bills. 

u Eight to nine. Tossed up and down in 
my bed— -Could not find one single comfortable 
subject to think about. 

" Ten. Breakfast alone — The sun very 
bright — the birds very noisy — both extremely 
troublesome — Scolded Roger for burning the 
toast. N. B. Roger never does right — Took 
down my aunt Rachel's picture from the wall 
in my study— no truth in physiognomy, other- 



137 

wise auut Rachel's picture could not be so very 
agreeeble. 

<e Eleven o'clock. Read from eleven to two 
Boileau's Satires — Satire very pleasant reading, 
especially when it cuts deep— vastly comforta- 
ble to know that men are not so good and wise 
as they seem. 

" Two to three. Tried to satirize my aunt 
and the parson after the manner of Roileau; 
ljut failed, I believe, for the want of incident. 

" Three o'clock. My aunt knocked at the 
door, and begged me to walk with her — refused 
roughly ; but went out half an hour afterwards 
into a path in which she was sure to see me — 
The smell of the May and Lilacs quite over- 
powering — wish there were none — In very low 
spirits — thought a good deal about my aunt 
Winifred's death — life bad — death worse — Aunt 
Rachel deluded, but happy in her ignorance. 

" Four o'clock. Saw my aunt walking with 
the old parson and his wife — am sure they 



138 

were talking of me — Parson very mild, but 
always preaches at me — preached last Sunday 
on the happiness of religion, on purpose to 
plague me— Nothing so vexatious as to, be told 
that others are happy when we are not. 

" Five o'clock. Dined with my aunt, the 
parson, and the lawyer — all looked suspiciously 
at me — Parson begged for his school — always 
begging, though I must say he gives largely 
himself. 

" Seven o'clock. My aunt went away with 
the lawyer — suppose to plot, as before — Left 
alone with the parson — did not like it — so 
very gentle, impossible to quarrel with him 
— All the parish, except the publicans, speak 
well of him — hate men whom every body , 

praises Parson very talkative — A weak 

man, seems to be pleased with every thing — 
praised the church, though he has only a poor 
vicarage — spoke kindly about my aunt Winifred, 
though she left him no legacy-— all hypocrisy, 



139 

— Drew me insensibly to talk on the evidences 
of religion — very strong on that point — tender 
in his manner — seemed to love and pity me — 
called God ' our Father' — spoke of the world 
as one large family — said we should love one 
another as brothers — all beautiful, if true. 

**■ Eight o'clock. My aunt and lawyer not 
returning, parson asked me to walk in the park 
— afraid to refuse, lest he should think ill of me 
— Parson a quick eye for the beauties of nature 
— looked at the landscape as if he thought it all 
his own — heard him say to himself, c My Father 
made it all' — Not so weak as I thought— full of 
information on practical subjects: Count Rum- 
ford, Howard, patent lamps, cheap cookery, 
smoky chimneys, schools, medicine, &c. &c. — 
Useful man in a parish; but always drawing to 
one subject — Wonderful to see a man's heart so 
taken up with religion— Came to a very pretty 
cottage—asked whose it was — Listened to a 
touching story— parson wept sometimes as he 



140 

told it — kind-hearted old man— -Went into the 
cottage — saw a young creature on the bed of 
death, without doubts, without fears; longing 
to be gone : she said, very emphatically, * To 
depart and to be with Christ is far better* — 
Envied hen 

" Ten o'clock. Went to my room — thought 
much of what I had heard and seen — compared 
my poor aunt Winifred with this young creature 
— no comparison in their state— Opened aunt 
Rachel's Bible at the account of the two Apostles 
in the dungeon at Philippi — very striking : * At 
midnight they sang praises, and the prisoners 
heard them '—heard them, but did not sing 
themselves — perhaps returned groans for pyaises 
— prison possibly the only place in Philippi in 
which the voice of joy was heard at midnight — 
Much power in religion — Prayed more heartily 
than I have done for years — felt more com- 
fortable/' 



14L 

Here ends the journal which I promised the 
reader; and, if I am not mistaken, it has let 
him more into the secrets of my mind than any 
portrait taken at this distance of time could 
have done.— And here, as it is not impossible 
that he may be sufficiently interested, especially 
in the character of the old clergyman, to feel 
a desire to hear the story of the young dying 
person to whom the journal alludes, I will en- 
deavour to tell it as nearly as possible in the 
words of the old clergyman. 

I had perceived that when we reached the 
cottage, he paused opposite to it, as if doubtful 
whether to go in. I then asked to whom it 
belonged. After a little hesitation, hg answered, 
" Will you, Sir, accept, instead of a short an- 
swer to that question, a somewhat long story? 
I do think it will interest you; and if not, I am 
sure that you know how kindly to forgive 
an old man for talking at length upon a very 



142 

favourite topic." I could not but assent to a 
proposal so kindly introduced, and he therefore 
proceeded in his narration nearly as follows. 
— But the story shall have a chapter to itself. 



143 



CHAP. XIV. 

THE DYING COTTAGER. 

' TANNY came to our village at the 

age of eighteen — one of the most lovely crea- 
tures you ever saw. Her eyes were full of 
intelligence, her complexion bright, and her 
smile such as at once to fix the eye and win the 
affection of every one who conversed with her. 
She was gay, good-humoured, and obliging; — 
but without religion. She had left her father's 
house to come here as servant at a public-house. 
In this situation, the worst that might have 
been anticipated happened. She was ruined 
in character; left the public-house when she 
could no longer retain her situation ; married 
the partner of her guilt, and came to live in 
this little cottage. There, as is usually the 



144 

case in marriages where neither party respect 
the other, he first suspected, then ill-treated 
her. When her child was born, his hatred 
and anger seemed to increase. He treated bolh 
with cruelty ; and, after some time, succeeded 
in ruining her temper, and almost breaking 
her heart. At length, after a quarrel, in which 
it is to be feared both had been almost equally 
violent, he threw her over the hedge of their 
garden, and brought on the disease of which 
she is now dying. During the two years in 
which all these events had occurred, her neglect 
of God and of religion had, I suppose, increased : 
all that was amiable in her character vanished ; 
and she learned to swear and to scold in almost 
as furious a tone as her husband. I could noc 
learn that, during all this time, she had more 
than once discovered the smallest sense of her 
misconduct, or fears about futurity. Once, 
indeed, her neighbours told me, that, when she 
heard the clergyman in his sermon describe the 



145 

happiness of Heaven, she burst into tears, and 
quitted the church. 

" It happened, that, on a fine summer's 
evening, (you will excuse me, Sir, for referring 
to the small part which I acted in this history), 
I was taking my rounds in my parish, to look 
after my little flock, and came, at length, to this 
cottage, where I remember to have paused for 
a moment to admire the pretty picture of rural 
life which it presented. The mists of the 
evening were beginning to float over the valley 
in which it stood, and shed a sort of subdued, 
pensive light on the cottage and the objects 
immediately around it. Behind it, at the dis- 
tance perhaps of half a mile, on the top of a 
lofty eminence, rose the ancient spire of the 
village church. The sun still continued to 
shine on this higher ground, and shed all its 
glories on the walls of the sacred edifice. 
J There/ I could not help saying to myself, ' is 
a picture of the world. Those without religion 

H 



140 

are content to dwell in the vale of mists and 
shadows; but the true servants of God dwell on 
the holy hill, in the perpetual sunshine of the 
Divine Presence.' 

" I entered the cottage, and was much struck 
with the appearance of its owner. She looked 
poor; and the house was destitute of many of 
those little ornaments which are indications, not 
merely of the outward circumstances, but of 
the inward comforts of the inhabitants. She 
was sitting busily at work with her sister. — 
I always feel it, Sir, both right and useful to 
converse a good deal with the poor about their 
worldly circumstances. Not only does humanity 
seem to require this, but I find it profitable to 
myself: for after, as it were, taking the depth 
of their sufferings, I am ashamed to go home 
and murmur at Providence, or scold my ser- 
vants, for some trifling deficiency in my own 
comforts. Besides, I love to study the mind 
of man in a state of trial — to see how nobly 






147 

it often struggles with difficulties — and how, 
by the help of God, it is able to create* to 
itself, amidst scenes of misery and gloom, a 
sort of land of Goshen, in which it lives and 
is happy. 

" After conversing with her for some time on 
topics of this kind, and discovering her to be 
a person of strong feelings deeply wounded, of 
fine but uncultivated powers, and of remarkable 
energy of expression, I naturally proceeded to 
deliver to her a part of that solemn message 
Avith which, as the minister of religion, I am 
charged: and not discovering in her the smallest 
evidence of penitential feeling — being able, 
indeed, to extract nothing more from her than 
a cold and careless acknowledgment that * she 
was not all she ought to be' — I conceived it 
right to dwell, in my conversation with her, 
chiefly upon those awful passages of Scripture 
designed by Providence to rouse the unawakened 
sinner. Still, Sir, feeling then, as I do always, 
H 2 



148 

that the weapon of the Gospel is rather love 
than wrath, I trust that I did not so far for- 
sake the model of my gracious Master, as to 
open a wound without endeavouring to shew 
how it might be bound up. Few persons are, 
in my poor judgment, frightened into Chris- 
tianity: God was not in the * earthquake' — he 
was not in the ' storm ' — but in ' the small 
still voice.' 

" After a pretty long conversation, I left her, 
altogether dissatisfied, I will own, with her ap- 
parent state of mind. Nay, such was my prone- 
ness to pronounce upon the deficiencies of a 
fellow-creature, that I remember complaining, 
on my return home, with some degree of 
peevishness I fear, of the hardness of her heart. 
I would fain hope, Sir, that I have learnt, by 
this case, to form unfavourable judgments of 
others more slowly ; and in dubious, or even 
apparently bad cases, to ' believe/ or, at least, 
to t hope, all things.' 



149 

" Notwithstanding, however, my disappoint- 
ment as to the state of her feelings, it was 
impossible not to feel a strong interest in her 
situation. Accordingly, I soon saw her again. 
But neither did I then discover any ground for 
hoping that her heart was in the smallest degree 
touched by what had been said to her. But, at 
a short distance of time, as I was one day 
walking in my garden and musing on some of 
the events of my own happy life, and especially 
on that merciful appointment of God which had 
made me the minister of peace to the guilty, 
instead of the stern disperser of the thunders 
of a severer dispensation, I was roused by the 
information that this poor young creature de- 
sired to see me. 

" One of her poor neighbours, who came to 
desire my attendance, informed me, with appa- 
rent tenderness, that Fanny ' was very ill;' that, 
as she expressed it, she had been in a very 
H 3 



150 

' unked state since I saw her, and that she 
' hoped I would be kind enough to come and 
1 comfort her/ * God grant/ I said to the 
poor woman, \ that she may be in a state to 
\ be comforted/ < That she is, Sir/ said the 
woman : ' she has suffered a deal since you 
\ were with her. The boards be very thin be- 

* tween our houses, and I hear her, by day and 

* by night, calling upon God for mercy. It 
' would break your heart to hear her, she is 

* so very sad. Tom (her husband) scolds and 
' swears at her; but she begs, as she would ask 

* for bread, " Let me pray, Tom ; for what 
' will become of me if I die in my sins?" ' 

" This account disposed me, of course, to 
make the best of my way to the cottage. I 
soon reached it; and there, to be sure, I did 
see a very touching spectacle, Her disease, 
which her fine complexion had before con- 
cealed, had made rapid strides in her coiisti- 



151 

tution. Her colour came and went rapidly ; 
and she breathed with difficulty. Her counte- 
nance was full of trouble and dismay. 

" It was evident, as I entered the room, how 
anxious she had been to see me. At once she 
began to describe her circumstances ; informed 
me, that, even before my first visit, her many 
and great sins had begun to trouble her con- 
science; that although her pride had then got 
the better of her feelings of shame and grief, 
this conversation had much increased them; 
that she had since, almost every evening, visited 
the house of a neighbour, to hear her read 
• the Scriptures and other good books ; that she 
was on the edge of the grave, without peace or 
hope; that she seemed (to use her own strong 
expression) ' to see God frowning upon her in 
every cloud that passed over her head/ 

M Having endeavoured to satisfy myself of 
her sincerity, I felt this to be a case where I 
was bound and privileged to supply all the 
H 4 



152 

consolations of religion ; to lead this broken- 
hearted creature to the feet of a Saviour ; and 
to assure her, that if there she shed the tear of 
real penitence, and sought earnestly for mercy, 
He, who had said to another mourner, « Thy sins 
are forgiven thee/ would also pardon, and 
change, and bless her. 

" I will not dwell upon the details of this 
and many other similar conversations. Imper- 
fectly as I discharged the holy and happy duty 
of guiding and comforting her, it pleased God 
to bless the prayers which we offered together 
to the Throne of Mercy; and this poor, agitated, 
comfortless creature became, by degrees, calm 
and happy. 

" You will not, Sir, I trust, place me among 
those who are ready to mistake every strong 
turn in the tide of the feelings for religion. On 
the contrary, all sudden changes of character 
are, I think, to be examined with a wary, 
though not with an uncharitable eye. There 






153, 

are, indeed, innumerable happy spirits which 
surround the throne of God ; but all of them 
bear in their hands ' palms' — the signs, at once, 
of contest and of victory. I was far more 
anxious, therefore, to know that her penitence 
was sincere, than that her joy was great. But, 
indeed, it was not long possible to doubt of 
either. The rock was struck, and there daily 
gushed out fresh streams of living water. New 
and most attractive qualities daily appeared in 
her. She became gradually meek, humble, 
affectionate, and self-denying. Her time was 
divided between the few family duties she was 
able to discharge, and the study of the Scrip- 
tures, which she learned to read fluently during 
her six months' sickness. She bent every fa- 
culty of her body and mind to the task of 
reclaiming her husband. And a more affecting 
picture can scarcely be imagined, than this in- 
teresting creature rising on the bed of anguish 
to calm his anger, to melt him by accents of 
H5 



154 

tenderness, to beseech him to unite in her dying 
prayer for mercy. Indeed, her conduct to him 
is not the least striking evidence of her change 
of mind. In the conversations I have heard be- 
tween them, she takes so much of the blame for 
all that is past upon herself, that I should never 
have suspected his misconduct but from the 
accounts of their friends. But there are other 
circumstances, no less decisive to my mind, of 
her sincerity. I observe, for instance, that, far 
from the sense of her offences being a mere 
transient emotion, she rarely speaks of them 
without a blush. And as she feels the colour 
thus rush unbidden into her cheek, I have 
heard her say more than once, * Oh ! how sin 
comes up in one's face!' — Another very satis- 
factory feature in her religion is her extraordi- 
nary tenderness for the souls of others. She 
sends for all her young friends, and, in the most 
solemn and touching manner, warns them of 
her past errors, and tells them of her present 



155 

happiness. And when a poor creature, whose 
offences were of a like kind with her own, 
chanced to settle in a cottage near her, I found 
she had crawled, though with much pain and 
risk, to the house, giving this reason for the 
undertaking, That any other visitor would be 
* too good to speak to such a sinner. / can tell 
her/ she said, • that I have been as guilty as 
herself; and that, since God has pardoned me, 
he will, if she seeks mercy, pardon her/ A part 
of this anxiety about others springs, I believe, 
from the extraordinary degree of emotion with 
which she regards that state of eternal punish- 
ment, on the very verge of which she conceives 
herself to have stood. One day, as I entered her 
room, she said, c I have been longing, Sir, to see 
you. I have been reading in " the Book " of a 
man who enlarged his barns, and said to his 
soul, "Soul, take thine ease ;" but a voice said to 
him, " This night thy soul is required of thee." 
Now, Sir, who required his soul ? ' I answered, 



156 

• God/ * Then/ she said, ' that poor man was 
on the way to the bad place, I fear/ * I fear 
he was/ I replied. ' Ah ! * she said, ' I thought 
so ! ' — and the hec^c of her cheek instantly 

changed to a deadly white. 1 am delighted 

also to discover one other circumstance. She 
is, as I said, full of peace and joy; but, then, 
her peace and joy are derived exclusively from 
one source. There is a picture in Scripture of 
which her state continually reminds me — I mean 
that of the poor creature pressing through the 
crowd to touch the hem of our Lord's garment. 
Such, I may say, is the perpetual effort of her 
mind. She renounces all hopes of Heaven 
founded either on herself or any human means; 
and relies only on that ' virtue ' which goes out 
of the 'great Physician/ to heal the diseased, 
and to save the guilty. When she partakes of 
the sacred rite which commemorates his death, 
such is the deep solemnity of her feelings, such 
her holy peace and joy, that you would think 



157 

she actually felt the presence of the Lord; and 
that, in another instant, she would ' spread her 
wings, and flee away, and be at rest/ 

" But, Sir, why do I continue to describe her, 
when you may judge of her for yourself] Pray 
come with me to the cottage. I think you will 
have no cause to regret the visit." 

I need not tell the reader that I complied 
with the desire of the old clergyman; nor shall 
I dwell upon the scene to which I have already 
adverted ; I will only say, that I did indeed 
there 'see how a Christian could die* — that 
I felt it impossible to continue a sceptic, when 
I marked in her countenance and language the 
power of religion — that I can trace back to 
that period a great change and improvement in 
my own character — that I discovered, even in 
the short time I spent by her dying bed, much 
evidence of the precision with which her pastor 
had described the source of her hopes and joys. 



158 

I perceived that no part of her happiness was 
gained by shutting her eyes upon her own guilt. 
She remembered it — she acknowledged it — 
she blushed for it — she wept over it; —but, 
then, she raised her eyes from herself to the 
cross of her Saviour, and seemed no longer 
either to fear or to doubt It is said of a ce- 
lebrated infidel, the motto of whose banner, in 
his crusade against Religion, was ' Ecrasez Vln- 
fame,* that, on his dying bed, he conceived 
himself to be perpetually haunted by the terrific 
image of his bleeding Lord. That hallowed 
image seemed also to be present with her. But, 
far from shrinking from the vision, she appeared 
afraid of letting it go. Her eyes seemed some- 
times to wander, as if in search of it; and 
then to rise to Heaven in gratitude for what she 
had seen. This sacred Name was ever on her 
lips ; and, as my old friend afterwards told me, 
she died breathing out, in interrupted sentences, 
that most solemn of all human supplications, 



159 

" By thine agony and bloody sweat ; by thy 
cross and passion ; by thy precious death and 
burial ; by thy glorious resurrection and ascen- 
sion; and by the coming of the Holy Ghost; 
good Lord, deliver us." 

Having thus fulfilled my promise of relating 
the simple story told by the venerable clergy- 
man, I shall resume the account of myself in 
a new chapter. 



1G(* 



CHAP. XV, 

AN ALMOST INCURABLE MAN RESTORED 
WITHOUT SENDING HIM TO A MADHOUSE; 

I TRUST the reader has not so far lost the 
thread of my history as to forget that he left 
me retiring to bed after my walk and conver- 
sation with the old clergyman. I slept quietly, 
and rose in better temper than usual. But I 
could by no means cease to look with suspicion 
on my aunt's conduct; and, more especially, I 
felt disposed to complain of her long and fre- 
quent interviews with the lawyer, mentioned 
above. Nor did the day produce any event 
calculated to allay my anger : on the contrary, 
several circumstances contributed to sharpen 
the edge of my resentment. In the first place, 



161 

I found that my aunt had, without the smallest 
communication with me, summoned a general 
meeting of the tenantry of the estate — to whom, 
I felt no doubt, she designed to expose my 
recent disappointment, and her own triumph. 
Secondly, and this I took exceedingly ill, con- 
sidering my known hostility to the education of 
the poor, it appeared that she had ordered the 
first stone to be laid of a new parish-school. 
Thirdly, I discovered that she had determined 
to enlarge the alms-house, which I always,, 
though in opposition I will own to general 
opinion, considered as an eye-sore from the 
dining-room window. Fourthly, I caught the 
gardener, acting under my aunt's express au- 
thority, in the very act of cutting down a branch 
of a fine oak in the park, in order to let in a 
view of the spire of the village church. Fifthly, 
I collected from my own servant, who, with 
the clothes, professed to adopt the opinions of 
his master, that my aunt had been busily en- 



162 

gaged with the old clergyman in ferreting out 
from the library every free-thinking book; had 
actually conveyed them into an out-house ; had 
deposited them carefully upon two or three 
bundles of faggots ; and was probably on the 
eve of consigning them to the same fate with 
the books of magic in the first ages of Chris- 
tianity. Sixthly, and lastly, I found that, while 
I had been walking out, my aunt bad herself 
entered the study, and, with a hammer and an 
. infinity of nails, had fastened up her own 
picture in such a manner as to be absolutely 
immovable, in the very spot from which I had 
taken it down. — This last measure was perfectly 
intolerable. Was I not merely to bear the 
occasional burthen of her bodily presence, but 
to have her image pursuing me even into my 
retirement ; haunting me, like a spectre, by 
night and by day? " Is this/' said I, " her 
" chanty ] Can the old clergyman justify this 1 
" Would he not have been better employed in 



163 

" checking this spirit of insult and despotism, 
" than in carrying, as I see him at this moment, 
" those noble volumes of Hobbes, and Chubb, 
" and Collins, to their funeral pile]" It was 
not that I had not begun to detest these volumes 
myself: still, in the present state of my mind, 
I regarded each of these unhappy authors as 
little short of martyrs to feminine intrigue and 
priestly bigotry, and could have almost drawn 
a sword, if I had worn one, in defence of those 
dishonoured volumes. 

In this state of agitation I passed the day ; 
slept ill, and rose late. At ten o'clock, how- 
ever, I was surprised by a summons from my 
aunt, begging me to attend her in the library. 
After some hesitation, as it seemed to promise 
me an opportunity of protesting against these 
tyrannical proceedings, I determined to clothe 
myself in appropriate thunders, and to obey 
her summons. I accordingly descended, opened 
the door with much dignity, and found my aunt 



164 

with some parchments in her hand, and, seated 
at her side, her now apparently inseparable 
companions, the lawyer and the vicar. She 
and the old clergyman rose to meet me — both, 
I must say, with countenances which left it 
almost impossible to be angry. We took our 
seats, and, after a little pause, my aunt began — 

** I have been examining, my dear Sancho, 
with much attention, the particulars of my 
sister's will." 

** It is the last thing, aunt," I replied, " that 
I have any disposition to examine/' 

She proceeded, without noticing my answer — 
" I have always considered it as one of the first 
duties of the living to watch over the repu- 
tation of the dead ; and, among other means 
of guarding them from reproach, I conceive 
one of the most important to be the endeavour- 
ing to repair any injury which, in a moment 
of infirmity or mis-information, they may have 
inflicted." 



105 

" Very true, aunt," said I ; " and now for the 
application of this remark." 

" I think, then," continued she, u that my 
poor sister has unguardedly inflicted such an 
injury; and I now call upon you, Sancho, to 
assist me in repairing it." 

" What injury do you mean, aunt?" said I. 

" You shall hear," she replied. " My sister 
educated you, Sancho, to be her heir* She 
promised you the guardianship of her estate 
and of her tenants — the privilege of being the 
friend and the father of all the poor villagers 
around. In some unguarded moment, or prompt- 
ed, perhaps, by her unmerited regard for me, 
she has made a will, giving you a mere legacy, 
and me the bulk of her fortune. Now it seems 
to me, Sancho, to be but common justice to 
one so dear to us both, to reverse the terms of 
the will ; and, though perhaps a proverb or 
two" (she said, smiling) " might be found in 
opposition to such a course of proceeding, to 



166 

give the fortune to you, and to keep the legacy 
myself. In executing this project, my dear boy, 
I have taken the advice of one of these gentle- 
Mfetf^' — pointing to the old clergyman, whose 
face was bathed in tears during the whole of 
this transaction — " and have borrowed the 
professional assistance of the other. All that 
now remains is for you to transfer to me your 
legacy. And because I wish, Sancho, to be in 
your debt, I will beg of you my favourite lodge 
in the corner of the park, which you shall have 
the pleasure of enlarging and adorning for my 
residence. There, unless you constrain me to 
live for a time with you, I should wish to spend 
the rest of my life. I shall there enjoy the 
retirement which you know 1 so much love — 
and which may, I hope, be allowed to an old, 
useless woman. There, also, I shall be near 
my poor neighbours. There I may seek that 
* better country/ where we shall neither weep 
nor offend any more. There, also, I shall hope 



167 

to hear, my dear Sancho, what it will be the 
joy of my heart to know, that you are good 
and happy yourself, and a blessing to all around 
you. I have summoned the tenants to-morrow, 
and I beg of you to receive them as their master 
and friend." 

Need I tell the reader with what mingled 
emotions of astonishment, shame, gratitude, and 
love I received this declaration of my aunt? 
I was silent at the moment; and I must beg to 
be silent now. I remember, that at the time I 
could only weep; and now, at the distance of 
thirty years, I feel far more disposed to shed 
an additional tear over the honoured grave of 
my benefactress and friend, than to describe 
my very imperfect manner of acknowledging 
her greatness, and my own baseness and ingra- 
titude. 

But, because I do not choose to enter upon 
the description of this particular scene, is it 
necessary that I should also, at this very point, 



168 

somewhat abruptly cut short my simple tale ? 
It is — and I will honestly confess the reason. 

It appears, then, to me, that I have been con- 
siderably too explicit as to the events of my 
own life, and the failings of one of my near 
relatives, to render it desirable the readers of 
this volume should be able, at once, to point 
to the hand from which it proceeds. But if I 
were to continue the narrative with equal pre- 
cision through the latter stages of my life, such 
an exposure of the family would be inevitable. 
Although, therefore, whatever I dare reveal I 
will ; I must yet take the liberty of a biogra- 
pher, in drawing a veil over the rest. 

My first step, then, on taking possession of my 
property, was earnestly to request my aunt's 
society in my house. I soon learnt to love 
her tenderly. And having convinced myself, 
by minute examination, that she owed all her 
charms and comforts to Religion, I was led to 
carry all my wants, and infirmities, and guilt 



169 

to the steps of that Altar of Mercy where 
never suppliant knelt in vain. There I sought 
peace, and there, by the mercy of God, I 
found it. The dove, which could discover no 
" resting-place" elsewhere for the " sole of her 
foot/' returned, and found it in the ark of her 
God. — I respected religion for a time for my 
aunt's sake, but I soon learnt to love it for its 
own. Then, indeed, I may venture to say, 
that it would have been very difficult to find 
two people happier than ourselves. There 
are persons, I know, who entertain a widely 
different conception of religion — who receive 
a proposition to devote themselves to the ser- 
vice of God as they would a scheme to immure 
them in a dungeon which the sun never visits, 
and where the cheerful notes of nature and 
the music of the human voice are never heard. 
But, whatever those may say who have made 
no trial of the happiness of religion, let not 
any of my readers, young or old, believe then?, 
i 



170 

" I have been young, and now am old ;" and, in 

the many wanderings of my worldly pilgrimage, 

have visited most of the fabled sources of 

human happiness. I stooped to drink of their 

waters, and always discovered them to be 

either tasteless or bitter. Still thirsting for 

happiness, I turned from these to drink at the 

fountain-head of devotion ; and there all my 

fondest hopes have been realized. Religion 

has, indeed, shut me out from the circle of 

tumultuous joys, and dubious amusements; but 

has abridged me of no real pleasure. On the 

contrary, it immeasurably multiplies the means 

and capacities of happiness. It invites us to 

the cultivation of all our nobler powers, by 

supplying a new field and loftier object for 

them: — it unlocks to the imagination the 

glories of an invisible world — it calls out the 

best feelings of the heart, by allying us to all 

the world — it surrounds us with dear friends, 

who overlook our infirmities in their busy 



171 

efforts to subdue their own— it raises ns above 
the atmosphere of the world's troubles, into the 
stiller regions of hope and joy — it unites us 
with the highest and tenderest of Beings, 
enables us to hold swejet and solemn commu- 
nion with Him, to call Him our Father and our 
Friend — it fills us with hope that He who 
died for the guilty has pity upon us, and that, 
behind the veil which hides him from the 
world, he is quickening our drowsy powers, 
and qualifying us for the enjoyments of the 
saints in glory. And is not this happiness? 
And must not all who have tasted of it, when 
asked, " Will ye also go away V with one heart 
and voice reply, " Lord, to whom shall we go — 
thou hast the words of eternal life." 

But, to proceed in our history — 

Although the lodge was enlarged and orna- 
mented according to my aunt's own fancy ; 
and although we contrived, there also, to let 
in a view of the village church, she never 
i 2 



172 

occupied it ; for though she made a faint 
struggle to escape, when I was united, at the 
distance of some years, to a daughter of her 
most intimate friend, we knew her value too 
well not to detain her. 

It may, perhaps, amuse the reader to hear 
of a fete prepared for his mistress by Roger 
the butler — a very capital man in the family 
— on the first Fifth of November which suc- 
ceeded my establishment in my mansion. — 
The family had always been much signalized 
by its attachment to Church and King; and 
it had been customary, ever since the days of 
the Stuarts, to proclaim this attachment to at 
least half a dozen surrounding counties, by an 
enormous bonfire lighted up on the top of 
our hill. I did not think it right to set aside 
so loyal a custom, but only to prevent the 
excesses which so often accompany it — and 
by which, I am well persuaded, neither the 
Church nor the King are at all benefited. Ac- 



173 

cordingly, some of the faggots were prepared. 
But Roger, a person of no small ingenuity, 
having discovered, a few days before, the im- 
mense hoard of free-thinkers and faggots which 
my aunt and the old vicar had collected and 
forgotten in the out-house, he caused them 
to be secretly conveyed to the scene of con- 
flagration ; and, having earnestly solicited the 
attendance of the family on the occasion, though 
without signifying his reason, we ascended the 
hill, and the old man had the singular satisfac- 
tion of seeing his mistress both amused and 
gratified with the result of his ingenuity. It 
was, indeed, curious to see her, at the first 
auto da ft at which she ever presided, in the 
true spirit of a Spanish Inquisitor hurl back 
to the flames, with her gold-headed cane, a 
volume of Shaftesbury, which had leapt pre- 
sumptuously from the fire. Nor did the 

inventions of Roger terminate here. Having 
learnt something of the distinct character of the 



174 , 

authors to be thus consigned by a family act 
to total oblivion, he determined that the title- 
pages, at least, of each of these volumes should 
die a sort of appropriate death. Accordingly, 
the ambitious Lord Bolingbroke expired in a 
rocket; — sly Mr. Hobbes hissed away his ex- 
istence as a serpent ;— and Voltaire, with an 
enormous band of his associates, were actually 
broken on a wheel. 

My aunt gave Roger much credit for his de- 
vice, and, in return, made him a present of a 
quarto Bible — in which I often hear him read- 
ing, with his own luminous comment, to the 
younger servants, in a voice which, with the 
utmost facility, reaches fram one end of the 
house to the other. 



175 



And now, should there be any of my readers 
dissatisfied with the degree of information 
concerning myself, which I have thought it 
right to lay before them ; and desirous of 
possessing some few general marks, by which 
they may, at least, be prevented from imputing 
this work to any innocent person ; I cannot 
find it in my heart absolutely to deny their 
request. 

If, then, they should, in one of the most 
mountainous of our distant counties, discover 
an old squire, dwelling in a venerable mansion, 
which grandly looks over the woody vale, and 
limpid lake beneath— if they should find this 
retired person with an unusual quantity of sil- 
ver hair; with an inclination of the shoulders 
greater, perhaps, than might be expected at his 
time of life; with something of that expression 
which belongs to a countenance where much 



17G 

happiness has succeeded to much trouble— If, 
moreover, they should find that he is a great 
reader of the Bible, though freely acknowledg- 
ing and deeply feeling his imperfect compliance 
with its precepts — that he is a calm and 
modest interpreter of Scripture, holding what 
is plain, strongly; but what is difficult, humbly 
and charitably — that he is anxious rather to re- 
concile the good of various parties than to dic- 
tate to any — that he is a man of naturally quick 
temper, much subdued — a zealous promoter of 
religion, even by unpopular means — a prudent 
friend to Church and State, though a hater of 
bigotry in religion, and of corruption in courts 
— If, moreover, they should discover in him 
many infirmities; some, the result of natural 
constitution ; some, of early habits ; all gra- 
dually diminishing, and all deeply, constantly, 
and loudly deplored by himself — If, also, they 
should detect in him a somewhat unaccount- 
able repugnance to those short, pithy, sen- 



177 

tentious, oracular sayings, called " proverbs," 
to which a large part of the world are disposed 
to render a most unqualified homage — If they 
should find all these circumstances concentred 
in the same individual — then it is not impro- 
bable that they have met with the very indi- 
vidual for whom this memoir is designed — And 
if not, they have probably met with a better 
man, and therefore can have no reason to com- 
plain. More minutely it does not become me 
to speak. 

But whilst I cannot persuade myself to yield 
to the wishes of the reader, in revealing the 
name of the author of this little work; I beg 
leave, in conclusion, most explicitly to state to 
them its moral. It is, then, its humble design 
to shew that mere human wisdom is very de- 
fective — that a large proportion of the most 
popular maxims are exceedingly unsafe— that 
many of them have a strong tendency to create 



178 

a sordid and selfish character — that our prin- 
ciples of action are to be sought in the Bible 
— and, finally, that if any person desires to be 
singularly happy, he has only to pray and to 
labour to become eminently good. 



FINIS, 



Printed by Ellerton and Henderson, 
Johnson's Court, London, 



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